I'm like connect-the-dots of drunk. Whiskey, bourbon, vodka, rum, gin. The hidden picture is me faceplanting.
We've finally come to the understanding that as long as our conversation stays stricaly sexual, we get along.
It was weird. Like "Mom, Dad, here's a guy who knows my orgasm face".
She's an honest to god fucking ballerina. She did things I don't have names for.
I'm convinced my penis is the only thing holding this relationship together.
Using the only finger i can move, i calculated body mass, intake and time. It's mathematically impossible for me to still have this hangover at 9pm. I passed out at 8pm last night. Fuck vodka.
Today marks the 365th consecutive day of jerkin it. I couldn't have done it without you guys. #onlynewyearsresolutionaccomplished
I inhaled my own vomit, how was your night?
Did you really get up in the middle of a tattoo to go get Taco Bell?
I'm coming right back.
I'm like an air traffic controller of women. It's a very similar job. Well spaced and gentle landings are good. When they meet, it's bad. Explosions bad. Dying screaming burning children bad.
We're exchanging our favorite porn sites at 9 am. I think this brings our relationship to a whole new level
I asked to see his balls for medical purposes.
At the ER. John needs stiches. Fuck pub trivia nights.
All I ever do is give guys anxiety problems and flaccid penises.
It's called life, you pretentious bitch. Grow up.
Randomize
