its like the voldemort of pregnancies, we don't talk about it
she's in the bathroom. spitting in the trashcan. not throwing up. just spitting and singing bad romance by lady gaga.
thatta girl
How can people commit suicide when things like bagels exist
My roommate just got home. Made an entire package of bacon. Ate it. And then went to bed.
He kept buying me shots of tequila. I decided to just save myself the half hour of toilet hugging and tell him straight up that I intended on sleeping with him. We got Tacos on the way home with all the money we saved.
I'm sorry. I think I have multiple personalities. Or it was the acid. Either way. I'm sorry.
He kept surfacing with a delighted look on his face, guessing different types of food to try to figure out what makes my pussy taste so good.
Our sex bag has now been upgraded to sex luggage, with wheels, and now features a first aid kit. Game. On.
Why is there a keg in our kitchen? I'm not complaining but why is there a keg in our kitchen?
She's an honest to god fucking ballerina. She did things I don't have names for.
Like, I just want to be naked rolling around in soft things.
Code 10 We gotta leave. Now. I took a dump in the upstairs toilet and its clogged and overflowing, and believe me I don't want to have to explain myself to this frat on parents weekend.
All I'm sayin is that I don't want to raise anything. Or deal with anything. Or having anything come out of my vagina. I mean, I don't think that's asking too much.
she doesn't even know what year it is. She just stumbles around life with a bottle of rum
I have already been up, showered, had a cup of coffee brought to me, added a little rum to cure the hangover, had sex and kicked him out and it's only 1pm. Successful day so far.
Randomize
