I don't know where I am but the food in the fridge is awesome.
What's wrong?
Long week. Sore muscles. Bad back. Hangover. Mini-keg. Crazy ex-wife. Unavailable love-interest. Dead celebrity families. Republicans.
Pussy.
I know it's not your turn to do the dishes, but since they're covered in your puke, it is.
Wedding update: no alcohol, 75% of people have left, no one is dancing, no single groomsmen, and it's 5:30. I'm going the fuck home to drink by myself.
If your dick isn't up when i get home you're catching tonight.
There is a mosh pit in our kitchen. You better hurry.
I've started grabbing my boobs in front of my lesbian philosophy professor so she'll give me a better grade. It's working...
Ill trade u your bra for a run to the liquor store...
Besides the flaccid incident, it was decent. Average sized. So this is my life now. Loneliness and lackluster sex.
Consider it an appointment to improve my blow job capabilities.
As we were passing the joint around, people were dunking Jenga pieces in Vaseline and sticking them to the window. I also smoked weed with a girl that was in an above the influence commercial.
I danced with a french guy who licked the sweat off my neck and poured a drink on me. Not gonna lie, that shit was refreshing
I'm trying to arrange "Flawless" to come on as soon as I get up to leave the room after my thesis defense. Bow down bitches indeed.
I love how encouraging you are, but I need you to stop me when the guy I'm going home with is a dead ringer for Nick Cage.
You microwaved all of my silverware, I don't care if you spent all your money on tequila, you're paying for this.
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