im surounded by vag. Like smog aound LA, i am suffocating in an atmosphere of pussy
after last night i think it would be a good idea if i wrote a will... you know, just in case.
I don't make the first move. Ever. Unless were playing monopoly cause that's my shit
Dude. No way. She insults the term butterface. She's a butternothing.
He told me that "my little fuckpig" was a term of endearment in Britain. I think I'm in love.
Would it be in bad taste to ask Marky Mark to sign the vibrator I named after him?
The moral of the story is do not hire me because everything will end up smelling like pickles and I will not sufficiently clean it up.
I refrained from asking a guy what he spilled on his dick because it smelled good. Morals.
It's called being normal.
I wasn't trying to be rude when I hurriedly walked past you, but I can not put in to words exactly how bad I had to shit.
I'm drinking straight vodka and railing lines of adderall while writing a paper about the nature of Jesus. It's 6:50 in the morning. College.
I consider my hand a solid 5. So if I'm dipping below a 7.5, I might as well go with old faithful.
She's lucky her pussy is worth listening to her ramble about bedroom furniture for 30 minutes
I'm so baked, I spent the last hour trying to screencapture the cracks on my phone.
Who brings nunchucks to a funeral?
I need you to sex the hangover out of me again.
Randomize
