oh and i feel obligated to inform you that there will be no sexin' because it's 'lady time' for me. so this ain't a booty call.
Last night we were drunk and talking about rude things, I mentioned felching and had to explain it to everyone. Everyone was disgusted and asked how I knew about such filth and I told them you told me. Don't get mad. Also a quck heads up, you might get gifts of straws at work,
first time Ive ever had to stop sex to go pass out in the kitchen floor...
so I have this game called 14 beers left. and we both have to drink 7 before we leave
I just found out why they dont make table-dance tables out of glass.
I found a horn on the street but it's okay I disinfected it with vodka
I had no where to run... The dumpster sounded like a good idea at the time
he kept yelling THIS ISNT AMATEUR HOUR
I wonder if he has realized that I have poured all if those shots he bought into the tip jar
we made it to hole 3 and then just sat down on the fairway and finished off our case....cheered on other golfers as we let them play through.
HURRY. I NEED DRUNK. MORE DRUNK.
THERE IS AN ENORMOUS FAT WOMAN EYEING MY FLIGHT'S GATE LIKE IT WOULD BE DELICIOUS TO EAT.
I left for five minutes and Chris wound up half in women's clothes, half naked. And the naked half was covered in shamrock stickers.
I took it upon myself to take one shot of tequila to have an excuse for hitting on my not-single coworker. It worked.
Henceforth: booty calls will now be referred to as "deliveries of anatomy". That is all.
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