Oh, Anna. In the immortal words of Joan Jett, I hate myself for loving…well, not you per se, but your boundless spirit of fucked-uppedness, your joi de vivre (or perhaps, joi d’ivre), your willingness to grab a stereotype by the triple-Ds and run with it all the way to the bank. Case in point:
You may be dead, but your spirit, your breasts, your nose, and portions of your lips will remain with us always.
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