If you put a seashell to your ear, you can hear Anne Hathaway’s nipples bitching at you. It’s not the overly obvious type of verbal incursion, more the subtle toll taking as if those nipples were the clapper on some suicide by shaving death knell. I might be projecting. But that’s what I see when I look at Anne Hathaway dressed like a middle-aged woman on her period at the beach.
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