Beauty is a sort of cancer, says Abbi while we shoot on the coast of Iceland. Winter, but Abbi comes from a different cold, the Slavic chill that infects your blood rather than stings your skin. "Beauty brings too many favors," she says. "Everyone gives and you don't learn how to do things yourself. Everyone wants you, wears you like a badge, and you do not learn who you are. Slowly, the gift goes sour, and you are unprepared for being ignored." She looks at the tiny bergs in the bay. "The pretty part you can see, above the surface. The ugly is below. Every beautiful person knows how ugly they are inside. And that's the cancer, eating you from inside. every compliment, every wink, every gift is anther toxic moment looking to enter my heart. To know that I depend on being pretty is the disease I carry in my mind. When these things meet, the disease within and the toxins bombarding me from without, the cancer burns." She lifts her chin and sneers at a gust of arctic wind: "Look at me Sean, sprawled on the ice: I am a woman in flames."