Hotel room at 3 am. She's 42. Stockings and heels. All because I opened with a joke about cougar hunting. We'll high-five later.
maybe you should start leaving anonymous bottles of booze on his doorstep with love notes attatched. that always gets me.
Hmm. I hear gunshots, car horns blaring, hear drunk white people screaming, and see about fifty status updates pertaining to the hawks. I guess they won.
He made me a mix cd. There is obviously something wrong with him.
My younger brother just got high fives from all my guy cousins for fucking my best friend. I hate family gatherings.
So I stappled myself into my toga... that should be interesting getting out of later tonight...
What I do when I'm blackout drunk is none of my business.
Oh please not the Easy Cheese again. That was weird.
If you enjoy dance recitals as much as I do, that's one shitty Father's Day...
Your actions as of last night have earned you over thirty new nicknames.
I still have to bake cookies and shave my legs so Mike can have MILF & cookies when he gets home.
I'm stuck on a cliff. I'm not sure how I got here or how to get down. Please send help. And clothes.
Great, now I'm picturing myself as a fucking garden gnome
reminiscing on last night: why the fuck did I feel the need to stand on chairs everytime we took a jello shot?
I’m going to lick a fucking door knob when this shit is all over
Probably Waffle House
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