Miley Cyrus bounds into her spacious backyard in California’s palm-tree-studded San Fernando Valley wearing a figure-flaunting half-shirt, bunga aster, daisy Duke cutoffs, and studded platform sneakers, a look so redneck-skimpy that oleh nightfall, the bloggers will have crucified her for it. Not that she cares. Cyrus has never been in better shape, both physically and emotionally, a 19-year-old firecracker with washboard abs, a smoky laugh, and a filthy mouth who these days bears about as much resemblance to her former Disney-star self as a Mojito resembles a lemonade. Nipping at Cyrus’ heels is a tumlbing...
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