I have a story that starts with Nutella and ends with sex in the laundry building at RIT.
You did not just play the dead husband card again.
Day two of taking my adderall. I just organized the pantry and alphabetized my dvds. I've missed my mind on drugs
you were sleeping on the floor, then you woke up and told me you were not comfy enough. You took the carpet in the bathroom put it in the bath and you slept there.
I tried giving you a bj last night and all you could manage was "Haha that tickles" and "in the morning"
This stranger told me I should "start playing for the other team" and then continued to talk to me about the joys of being a lesbian
I needed that adderall to break my tradition of passing out at the bar on Sundays
trust me. coming from a bonafide dirtbag, this dude is up to shady shit
no he just sat there holding the hammer and grinning insanely
Alvin just won tickets on the radio. I guess he's out of jail.
Moral of the story: next time my plans include you and bourbon, I'm packing a toothbrush.
You have a husband. I have a bag full of electronics. This, is the single life.
Remembering you have vodka in the freezer gives the same surge of happiness as finding 20 bucks in a coat pocket.
I need to show you how I feel about you by fucking you repeatedly.
My horoscope should say: you're an alcoholic, get help today, Pisces
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