Just found out I have to work new year's eve. It's like one final 'fuck you' from 2009.
so it turns out, not only do the doormen judge the girls I bring home, but they rate them.
You bring the bicep workout. I'll bring the unscented gentle products. We'll both bring our penises.
He kept saying that the puke outside the theater wasn't his and it was all a set up to keep him from partying with the whores. Then he passed out on the sidewalk.
We just saw him running from campus police a few minutes ago. So no, I don't think he's still passed out on the quad.
Oh my god! She wrote the word ''hi'' in HAIR on the shower wall. What the fuck?!
I hit him with a car. Nothing says I hate you more than backing into someone with a fucking car.
You stuck a chicken finger in that stripper's clevage and said "Keep this warm for me.
I'm drunk at a gay bar with my riding crop. God save the queens
I'm smoking a bowl and pondering why we haven't discovered teleportation again.
Your ankle brace is here and the saw is charged. Grab some vodka that cast is coming off tonight.
Last night you texted me "tqiirkykbg doe freedom always"... why?
Sometimes intelligent conversation doesn't mix well with a romantic interest. It's possible the two are best kept separate. Toys should just stay in the toy box.
I love how my parents bring water bottles filled with vodka on family trips
I'm unsure if I could pee myself at this point in my life
Randomize
