I need to shower the guilt off of my thighs.
I showed him my bush... on skype.
I'm constantly one strobe light away from an E flashback
sticking your finger down your throat to make yourself throw up is bulimia, not morning sickness, so no, I don't think you're pregnant.
But Monday we'll be living in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Also, I'm going to a champagne tasting.
I'll have you know that I'm still picking duct tape residue off my wrist from sunday
She set fire to my carpet trying to power-dry puke covered cigs with Josh's blowtorch. How she found it in the garage is beyond me but if you bring her with you again I'll shoot you myself.
Somehow me not being able to breathe due to cocaine doesn't seem very domesticated.
And drunk me decided to play keep away with sober me's dignity
She was the shot vending machine at the party. But free.
You grabbed the hot guy that was making out with his girlfriend all night, slurred "I need to borrow this" then shoved your hand down his pants. All because you thought your ex walked into the bar. It was majestic in its shitshowness.
We'll never be able to grow apart now. You can't look at a stranger & say "Yea I ate goldfish crackers off his dick." & just be casual about that.
I just went to cvs and bought condoms, handcuffs and a coloring book
And a hot pocket after we fucked. Heaven.
Oh please. Preoccupy yourself with my penis.
Randomize
