I feel like your standards for women is like rent-a-centers standards for credit.
We had sex this morning and after she goes, " So are we going to do something for Valentines Day?"
I don't care. He smelled like a fucking chilli cookoff
all you kept saying from the spare room was "can you bring me a puke bowl...and the cat"
There's still flour in my hair. And I don't even want to know what the neighbors think happened infront of my house.
She is just sitting by the bathroom like a little puppy waiting for a knight in shining armor to take her in there to fuck her. New low?
Do you know how disconcerting it is to hear the sound a dog makes while it drinks water and find out that it's someone eating you out?
I hate being near you and not being able to do what I want. It's like a recovering alcoholic tending bar. I feel like Sam Malone. Except I can't bang the cute chick I work with.
He sat next to me, put his arm around me, yelled at his girlfriend that he was breaking up with her, and told me I'm his little pet for the night.
well you don't shave your pubes into a handlebar mustache and keep the party to yourself
You did a body shot out of her belly button with a bendy straw.
Oh my fucking god that cat looks just like you after you accidentally took Ketamine
I always felt my time would come in the form of a tidal wave of whisky
Aiming to get laid tonight but if it falls thru I'm either gonna make a mixtape for my sugar daddy or sew a teddy bear for his newborn
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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