It's what's on the inside that counts(972): They probably have big open vaginas so the inside is no good
things it involved: vodka, boy parts, possible photos of me on a cell phone. things it did NOT involve last night: my bra, his pants, and sobriety.
The guy at McDonald's just told us there is no flash photography allowed.
I had a drunk dream I lived on a puppy farm. I hope this dream repeats every night of my life.
She just left after she spent the past 2.5 hours fuckin the shit out of me. I'll put that in the logbook as a cross country
I had to talk to the cops at my front door in a bathrobe, with the buttplug still in.
I just took the batteries out of the xbox remote so she could replace the dead ones in her vibrator If that's not love I don't know what is
I woke up this morning and I had the absolutely horrific realisation that I am the human incarnation of scrappy doo
If I get one more "oh yaaaaa he changed your oil" texts, I'm gonna lose my shit
I think one of my ovaries is committing suicide. But that is a topic for another day.
this makes me concerned. not enough to actually do anything about it, but yeah.
If so I'm coming over there. There's no way I'm having "hello, how are you" conversations with my neighbors on acid
I currently hiding in an upside down garbage can please come find me
He kept saying "i'm lost" while he was sitting on his couch...
whole 5th of capt = waking up in the shower after 2 hours and the whole house asking why i'm STILL in a towel. and me having nothing to say
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