I woke up this morning really drunk with my Christmas lights on and two owls in my bed.
Umm. Any where really. Alcohol and boobs. Those are the requirements.
Swallowing. Like you said. Lions. Always.
He's like Medusa, you can't look directly into his eyes or you'll turn into a slut.
Nothing like an old fashioned, wine fueled, anxiety-cry in the shower to start off finals week.
It's 6 a.m. ... what the hell.
If I can't get slightly excited by the thought of his face between my legs then I know I can never sleep with him.
The strip clubs here are like a safari of penis, and I'm gonna bag me a rhino.
In your drunken glory you promised me, tongue, 12 naked pics, and 1,800 breakfasts.
I actually want to work out for some reason... I think it's my brains way of telling me it doesn't like living in a fat body.
I've never heard "I will drown your mother in vanilla pudding" as an insult before, and then last night happened.
I do NOT want my proposal story to start "...he was peeing on me and then..."
I feel like I have a very capable uterus.
Lol yeah. Because I just woke him up to blow him for being hot.
Three Decembers later, I'm looking at this fuckin Santa lingerie I bought and just realized my stocking never got stuffed....
I still judge her for aggressively trying to get coke from my date but pretty cool that she's a black belt
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