Let's start a violent farting gang. We can do walkbys.
I don't think my prof knows we've noticed her No Bra Fridays.
Hey. Be honored that I consider you the genital expert. I know alot of candidates for the position.
Look at my eyebrows in this pic! We deffo need to go back to that waxing place.
You have a cock in one hand and a shot in the other. Your eyebrows are not the topic in need of discussion.
I'm to the point that I've had the revelation that its physically impossible for my arms to be attached to my torso.
I watched you fall asleep, sitting up, eating a cinnamon roll. You proceeded to wake up...smile at your cinnamon roll, ask it how it got into your hand and then began eating it again. You asked me if you were ridiculous last night, define ridiculous.
You can't text people with drinkers' regret at 8 in the morning. It's just bad form.
I, soberly, gave myself a concussion trying to take a pic of my vagina. Fuck you and your hangover.
Like I owe him sex. Hell fucking no. I owe myself sex. With a celebrity. Or a clean pornstar. Who knows.
I mean like, I missed 30 minutes of star wars to fuck you on Christmas so you must be worth something
I shouldn't have watched rise of the planet of the apes and then gotten high. I'm now convinced that the cats are out to get me.
Dude you came into the room last night soak and wet and told me you just took a shit in the shower
Didn't think I'd be dancing with the Power Rangers but here I am
everything I love is going to destroy me, so if coconuts are the answer, so be it.
I texted him: “Come over for the Super Bowl. I promise lots of scoring.”
My divorce is turning into a porn script
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