Who doesn't wake up in the morning sometimes and say, "Damn it, kiddo, you are just going to have to Anne Hathaway through this day"? Her eyes. They haunt me. The fear. The pain. The way her trembling lashes seemed to plead, "Why? Why is this happening to me? What is wrong with Franco? Why is he standing there like he just drank a Malibu-and-Klonopin smoothie? Did he die? Did we both die and this is purgatory? Hey, look, people – my dress is sparkly! It swishes like this!" It was like those scenes in Don't Look Back where Dylan is freezing out Joan Baez and she's desperately trying to get his attention. No man has treated an Anne Hathaway this shabbily in public since Shakespeare died and left his wife his second-best bed. Hathaway, your strength inspires me. Everything nice that ever happens to you forever is fine by me.