I'm going to an arts college, I live next to the frat houses, and my room number is 420. god has plans for me and I couldn't be happier.
I'm playing wingman, but I want to pull a Goose and die.
he keeps his weed in a birkenstock shoe box. its like, we get it, youre from oregon.
I'm relatively certain my chiropractor just judged me for admitting that my back is misaligned from the sex we had last night...
New definition for "rock bottom": Waking up in a puddle of your own puke, missing your fake tooth. Then having to dig through said puddle of puke for aforementioned fake tooth. Think it's time I quit partying so hard.
Is this your way of breaking up with me as my wingman?
There was definitely a significant amount of cookie dough in my bra
I need to throw up and die. The order doesn't matter. I feel like shit
so I am that guy with the red solo cup in class. someone has to step it up.
That commercial was clearly aspirational. I think Arbor Mist would pair nicely with Oscar Meyer
Did you blackout Saturday before or after we had sex in a random snow bank?
And I'm glad you're waiting to invite him over. he may have a weird penis thing and then dinner becomes awkward.
Moral of the story: fuckboys never change
I'll like his pictures on Instagram every once and a while so that when he sees my name he is reminded of the best blow job he's ever gotten.
I'm laughing at the fact that I'm at Target right now buying vitamins and alcohol.
You know you're more responsible when you turn down your bed and make a clear path to it before you go out..
Randomize
