Conclusion from last night: Sometimes being classy isn't as fun as making out with a guy on a pooltable in a bar. Happy birthday, Canada.
All I remember from last night is puking up a box of cheeze-its and the building catching on fire.
she made me cover her fishbowl with my shirt because she "didn't want to corrupt it."
And then I'm going to yell into her vagina and see if it echoes
it was a sick party until you insisted on putting on "that's how I beat shaq"
dude i just figured out that the tostitos sign is two people eating chips and salsa. being high totally pays off sometimes
A very small part of me wants you to appreciate me for more than just my breasts. But the rest of me is breasts.
You kept screaming how great you were at drawing poptarts and you insisted on drawing them all over my forearm
after she pushed someone down the stairs to get more vodka we lost her for a while and found her on the pole in the garage pouring water on herself
i'm calling it my monica lewinsky shirt now. may it live forever in infamy.
When I'm famous, she'll look at her kids and go "I saw her buttcheeks beefore she was famous. I'm truly blessed."
Do to my newly discovered condition I'm having to resort to emergency beat sessions to avoid the temptation to text girls I know are easy slams.
I just googled: how soon can I pee on a stick. What is my life coming to.
Is it a bad thing when vodka doesn't taste like vodka anymore?
Why would I want a relationship when I’m the side dick for my boss and a few women from the gym
Randomize
