Fresh. Delicate. Lovely. Pure.

Oh, Paz de la Huerta's unpolluted beauty never fails to make me wish I could shapeshift into a sponge, wipe myself across the glistening tundra of Crisco called her face, wring myself out over an empty jar of Ragu and store it under my kitchen sink for whenever I need an extra touch of elegance in my frijoles. I pretty much get swoony whenever I've got a pearl choker in front of me, but Spaz went beyond. I'm talking about the hair that was probably styled by a beaver with no hands...

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