Alone. In an inflatable pool. Drinking vodka and raspberry lemonade. I don't need approval as much as I need to know you love me still.
Granted I did fall into a pond wearing your dress, but I did save a frog in the process so I think it was worth it.
I'm buying you potatoes, the least you could do is not ask any fucking questions and just say thank you.
I have a video (on my shattered iphone) of a random DJ at some bar giving me a birthday shoutout and texts from random numbers talking about birthday sex. My birthday is in April... Happy birthday to me?
It's not quite a landing strip... It's more like a soul patch for my vagina.
The owner of this phone is no longer accepting texts from liars, assholes or married men. You figure out which one applies.
I swear to god little potato creatures live inside Belvedere bottles and claw at your throat as you swallow shots.
I will have you again some day my love. And our divorce will be magnificent
Confirm that you received these messages so that I know you feel the agony of my vagina. There is such a thing as "too many penises".
You're the second person to offer to fuck me in the bathroom at work. Idk whether I should feel honored, or if cvs is just a turn on.
And I'm laying here struggling with the notion that I need to put pants on.
I just watched an old episode of Daria while eating brownies to cure day drunkness. Clearly I'm winning at adulting today.
I literally heard an 'oh my god' when the shirtless Tongan appeared.
I threw up in my 8 AM. Morale is low.
On the brightside we know now that empty pringle cans are accepted at mcdonalds as cups.... Screw people who judged us, we saved a buck
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