my house keeper must think I'm a prostitute.
So guy #2, the dancer, is programmed into my phone under the name H.uy. His number- 11 digits. I should have stopped drinking.
By the grace of god and the ingenuity of Alexander Graham Bell, this text message is made possibe: YOU ARE A WHORE
He came on me while singing crank dat like soulja boy, fuck our sex life has reached a whole new level of low
Found him. He was passed out on the couch at the new place in a room full of burnt pizza smoke.
At a Jewish lesbian wedding. I stick out like a sore, uncircumcised penis.
Should have told me the night we were talking about deal breakers that vomming outside your car was one of them. I would have taken a cab back
It's an "im going to have to shit with the lights off" type of morning
And then you'll find yourself a hot chick and leave me behind with nothing but my back fat to keep me company.
Every time you blow me I should make a paper crane and we'll make them into a chain and hang them from the ceiling. And then whenever we have people over and they ask what the cranes are for I'll say "reminders" and wink at you.
yeah dropping that class because i really don't want to be known as the girl who fell asleep in class and threw up as she walked out for an entire semester
Ya know what's been the best part of this College Football Season? Not having to hear Brent Musberger say the Honey Badger 77 fucking times.
The golf course isn't that incognito for sex.
My uterus is doing all sorts of karate moves to break free of my body.
Sunday morning breakfast with the boyfriends family. I just puked in the stall at Cracker Barrell. Classy.
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