my number is 615-555-1212, <3 your favorite asshole
I think I died a long time ago.
She's like the female version of the Momento guy. She keeps forgetting that I'm an asshole after we have sex.
I'll show rhose boucners: You don't let me in, I poop on your pool.
Dude just slipped a $20 into the jukebox at that restaurant we were escorted out of last Mardi GRAS. Hope they enjoy Justin Bieber's Baby cause they're gonna hear it 40 fucking times.
Also, we just got yelled at by a cop for being awesome...or making out in a fountain. Whatever.
Sometime between a drunk guy asking me if I'm a Beach person or a lake person WHILE HIS HAND WAS IN HIS FUCKING PANTS or breaking up a lady fight over peewee football league I started to reevaluate my life and self
Her desktop wallpaper is a collage of penises she fucked.
Just the amount of girls he locked himself in my room woth says your gonna have to take a cab bro. I don't think he's going anywhere
Bailey. He has a soul patch. Idgaf if he was an NFL player. Nobody with a soul patch is attractive.
Actually it's really just going to be me drunk in your living room swinging from a pole on a tuesday morning.
He sent me a snapchat of himself growing a double chin. I think we're past the stage where there's any risk of us sleeping together. Ever.
So, my ex just showed me the drunk voicemail we left him last night. Started out with me saying "I think it's Shane." Then you took my phone and started singing a song about peanut butter, train tracks, and tequila. I joined in. On the upside, he said he's totally fine with being on the drunk dial list from now on. Soooo, another tequila night??
The last thing I searched on my phone was "leave in conditioner on cats." This is where my life is.
My coworker's brand new computer showed up today. He's on vacation for the next week. Brian and I are installing Windows 98 on it.
Randomize
