She kept screaming "yeah! You pick up my books!" the whole time. . .
I can actually hear my brain cells scream as they die when she speaks.
They had an entire room dedicated to passed out people. It was like a dogpile of cross faded toddlers drooling on each other.
Would it be safe to assume you're the one that left my front door wide open and left yourself a trail of jaeger drops to find your way back?
About six hours after the bottle of smirnoff, I was googling "losing your stomach lining" and calling my mom for help. She has experience.
She's an honest to god fucking ballerina. She did things I don't have names for.
I come back upstairs and she's leaning over sink full of vomit saying 'oh my god it's the chili'
I told him I was very thankful for what his country has done to my vagina and walked away.
Can't you just imagine you've grudge fucked me so we can get past this?
Question #1: Why am I on my living room floor? Question #2: Where did the bloody footprints come from? Question #3: Why are there two McChickens next to the wine bottle?
You know, we cock-blocked like 5 people last night. It's like we're her vagina goalies
Lesson learned. No more vodka and toaster strudel
I'm trying to fuck him and feed him. I don't understand why it isn't working.
He stopped mid-fuck to explain his choice in pillows. HE WAS STILL IN ME!
Is it a bad thing when vodka doesn't taste like vodka anymore?
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