I have a story that starts with Nutella and ends with sex in the laundry building at RIT.
you threw up in someones recycling bin and left a note apologizing. how drunk do you think you were?!
so jimmy johns showed up at our party last night. our house is sponsored now. living the dream.
That's your penis' name. I've always referred to it as Alejandro secretly.
fat chick, vomit on the dog, and three unidentifiable pills in my ear. all in the same ear. what the hell happened after the guests showed up?
The party went downhill once the fire department had to be called to put out the kitchen fire.
He's bought his dick a cell phone. A cell phone. For his dick...
He gave me the number and told me that I if I want to hook up again, I have to call his penis.
Who the fuck superglued glowsticks to my arm.
I dealt with the imported moonshine, but when the cocaine came out, I had to get the fuck out of there
Now everytime I sit on a toilet I think about having sex with him. Great.
FOUND MY PANTIES COMINY JOME
i can do like, 15 pushups. 20 if i listen to dubstep.
Nothing says "i love you" more than flowers and potatoes
Holy shit dude........stairs
Nxt time we drink that much, we'll have to hide the crayons. Crayola-ing a mural on the living room wall wasnt the brightest idea, but it sure is classy. Right?
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