Don't feel too badly. Until twenty minutes ago my paper was a heading and a pizza order.
You passed out in the bathroom with the door locked. Had to take a shit in your litter box. Don't worry, your cat buried it for me.
I'm watching the red sox through my neighbors window from my bathroom. We're winning btw.
Somehow I managed to make my Dunkin Donuts uniform look slutty. And I'm not even wearing hoops.
I am kinda proud of you, its like seeing my slutty baby take its first step
went from writing my paper to watching obamas speech to crushing beers and singing springsteen in a crowd of 100 within 20 minutes. I love this country
First of all you can never say anal too much. Second I now think you're a total gentleman.
Rarely has that paragraph ever been put together
She looks like a beluga.
I want to splash her with water and when she screams say "I didn't want you to die. You looked parched"
its like my brain is a tree and you are those little cookie elves
When we left, you were on your third beer. When we came back to grab you, you had a pint glass half full of whiskey and had convinced the band to give you a microphone.
He carried you out but the best part is you kept saying "can't I keep dancing" as you were gushing blood
Afterwards he face timed like four of his friends screaming he banged the hot intern.
I spend so much of my life shaving my body hair off and I want nothing more than his beard in all my hairless places.
Last night I recall my hair going up in flames. This is evident by the burnt hair smell that is following me around this morning
You know how fear has a smell? Well turns out shame has a smell too. It's Pina colada flavored anal grease.
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