Let’s start with the porn.
Yes, I can’t entirely see these, but I am pretty sure I think they’re awesome — kind of like how I don’t NEED White Collar’s Matt Bomer to take off his shirt to know that I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating his own shoelaces (although it would help).
But we should probably deal with the rest of this. It’s inevitable, like bacon-flavored peanut butter.
It’s all billowy and weird, like she has run up the sails on the S.S. Graham Cracker and is cruising the pacific with a cooler of lobster salad, a bottle of prosecco, and some Kettle Chips. Which is a nice afternoon, if you remember your SPF, but oftentimes it ends in peeling skin, tears, a call to the towing company to drag your tragic prow off a sand bar, and memory loss.