Tonight, I'm planning on being a bigger trainwreck than Britney Spears circa 2007.
for on dont try to tell me you love me after three weeks of talking, for two if you are going to do that stay away from the song lyrics to a very good country song that you happened to ruin by using it, and for three erase my number im fuckin your sister now
I can handle NPR. I speak hippie. I took it in college.
The plants looked thirsty. Growing plants need mimosas too.
Only way we know if he truly fits in is if we spill straight vodka on the floor and his first instinctnis to lick it up. Otherwise, gameover.
I am never taking advice from you again. The high heels in the shower were a bad idea. I orgasmed and almost drowned.
He had a 99.9% chance of getting laid...until he started cutting down the frat's volleyball nets with his pocket knife.
WE COULD TOTALLY DO ECSTASY AND GO TO THAT CAT SHELTER OFF OF BROADWAY.
I don't know what's more sad. The fact that I'm genuinely impressed about being sober for a whole 3 days or the fact that I want to get wasted in celebration.
He wanted me to blow him while he did curls and looked at himself in the mirror. Not sure if gay or ego maniac.
On another note, I feel like my vagina is slowly being peeled off with a rusty potato peeler.
Apparently I missed the "You may have to jack off a horse" part of the application.
Well sort of got busted by a cop while having sex outside, so your call
you bounced a quarter off my butt and it came back hitting you in the eye. karma, bitch.
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU STUCK YOUR DICK IN CRAZY!
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