While wearing a coat made of the carcasses of Benji’s slaughtered relatives, Liberty Ross left London’s Serpentine Gallery last night with a dude who isn’t her cheating skank husband Rupert Sanders and she held hands with the dude, so this obviously means that she’s scrubbing away Kristen Stewart’s saliva (that was transferred to her chocha by Rupert’s tongue) on a shrub of curly British pubes. Obviously.
I know, Liberty Ross should be under her bed sheets, wallowing in the shame of her husband passing his nomad tongue to a slow trick with the sex appeal of uncooked peen dough, but she took the advice of important poet Kandi Burruss and is flying above all the drama. Besides, the best way to reheat a cold heart that froze from your husband cheating on you is to put it in front of the warm flashes shooting off of the paparazzi’s cameras.
And I know these pictures of Liberty Ross (Side note: The first time I read the name “Liberty Ross,” I Googled to see if there’s a Ross Dress For Less in a town called Liberty, because I know what’s important.) are heart-stoppingly exciting on their own, but I threw in pictures of everyone’s favorite British drunk Kate Moss. Kate Moss is saving the economy, one vodka shot at a time.