I miss Bob Barker.
Yeah, more like Douche Carey...
I like complaining with weaving words and complex sentences. It makes me seem more sophisticated and less bitchy.
I hate having morals and standards the next morning.
Its the Friday before break. There are 20 kids in my 300 person lecture hall. All with the same what the fuck am I doing here look on there face.
Ok...drunk girls at the bar are charging $1 for motorboating. It's fucking WEDNESDAY. I never want to leave.
I apparently texted him "since you're taking time out to think about us. You probably need to think about me getting arrested right now."
Apparently from about 3-5AM I was consoling that crying stripper about her life choices.
The plan was to get laid... Now the plan is to survive.
I'm offering you baseball tickets and my vagina, isn't that enough?
Doing bumps while the kids play upstairs. #bestnannyever
No he can't come. I swear to gods he's "Why We Can't Have Nice Things" given physical form.
The dysfunction is strong in this one.
My vagina still hurts from yesterday. That's the last time I think riding a mop bucket is a good idea. Don't let me do that again
I learned the hard way a garbage bag will not save you when jumping from a tree at 2am
All I remember thinking is, why the fuck are there martians on the ceiling? And they were riding fruit. Like strawberries and shit.
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