Lindsay Lohan is in rehab, murmuring "Lindsay Lohan is is rehab" to herself, because she's looking down at a floating legend, in a rose olde english script, that reads "Lindsay Lohan is is rehab"; no-one else can see it. Lindsay Lohan is in rehab, singing Amy Winehouse's "Rehab" to herself, unconsciously, without irony; she sounds like Daphne Zuniga in Spaceballs, when Daphne Zuniga is imprisoned, intoning "Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen" in a deep, rich Paul Robeson-like bass voice. When primping, Lindsay Lohan addresses her mirror reflection as "Lindsay Lohan" in a detached, neutral way, perhaps because she no longer thinks of herself as a person with a distinct subjective sense of reality, but as a media-dependant hologram, a reactionary harpie, a phantasm, a commentary, a concept. Lindsay Lohan has built a smoldering bonfire of cocaine-encrusted hundreds on the cot in her room at the rehabilitation center; over it, she roasts s'mores that she refuses to share with anyone else.