I think I died a long time ago.
Apparently last night I sat at the bar with an upside down sharpie lightning bolt on my forehead, yelling "It's Harry Potter's birthday! Let me be on the qudditch team!" And I kept calling the bartender Dobby. There are videos.
Stop it. You sound like you're giving birth.
Mom just posted ur drunk pix from Cancun in the newly made "My not-so-fantastic son" album. Thought you should know.
Monday: I just need a drink Tuesday: OMG no more this week! Wednesday: oh shit how'd I get drunk Thursday: I'm glad you've stopped the pretenses
I have so many hands. So. Many. Hands. I can feel arms that I don't have yet. They tickle. I can see the blood in my eyes. I think something is happening. The hands!!! I'm ticking myself with hands I don't have yet! I can't stop giggling about my notyet hands!
On the back of that comment, I've formed a theory that as a result of my brainwashing your drunk self actually believes that beards are your calling.
Did i mention i'm like the equivilent of a prepubescent boy suffering from preejaculacy? I just about creamed my pants when he grabbed my hand..
I might have been fine if i had magic teleportation powers and could have skipped the car ride between bar and home
Bone him for me, BONE HIM TWICE FOR ME.
Are you playing pokemon in the dark and sexting? I can't be mad at that.
I NEED TO TAKE A FUCKING BREAK. MY VAGINA IS SMOKING.
I don't care how hot he is. I will not strip for him to country music.
I blame everything on you. My broken heart, my fucked up liver and my twisted mind.
You'll be pleased to know I just had an elaborate day dream about your penis. you were there too.
Randomize
