There comes a time in every man's life where he has to shit in a catbox to prove a point.
today was the first day of rush. talking to girls all day makes me sick of having a uterus.
this blows. i told the guy at the bar that i was the DD and it was like i just announced over megaphone that i had genital herpes. no one will talk to me now.
Question. Will thrown up fruit loops go down the shower drain?
Post-shopping-cart-scooter-jousting victory fuck?
And I'm not sure if that's how you pluralize penis. Never planned on needing to know that in my life.
Ok John needs to move to the other side of the county. I do not like to be approached for a blow job in the produce section of Holiday Market.
My only downfall is that I can only take shots in twos.
It was drunk tag. I was Alice in wonderland chasing a ballerina who was chasing Lance Armstrong who had needles in his arms.
Well, after emptying the contents of my stomach into a fucking rose bush, the only things moving through my digestive system are pills, coffee, and my own lip gloss. If that gives you any idea what kind of a day I'm having.
She's going to be the first to die of too much illness. Not even super bad stuff like cancer but like for having a cold at the same time as a sore throat and chlamydia or something. Just too much diseases.
You knocked on your freshman year room door, told the kids who opened it "I own you", and attempted to force-feed them everclear.
Waking up next to a guy you don't remember going home with and the first thing you say is: where is my tiara? = successful birthday
I wanna hang out. The cats don't talk back.
Do you think showing up at his door with bourbon and chicken is too forward?
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