We were tigers and tigers don't wear pants
got hammered last night, woke up this morning to 38 texts that varied from "you fucking asshole" to "i can be there in 10 minutes"
I just found blacked-out interviews on my voice recorder. Go journalism.
What's the wine called that we really like and we usually drink it with xanax?
He scratched off my spray tan. Literal nail marks down my back. Can't imagine what's underneath his fingernails.
...And then you kept screaming "cock mouth" in her face every time she tried to talk.
The guy I fucked in San Diego is camping with us for coachella... Awk.
Let's just do a victory lap through all of our exes.
Girl, that was the lost night of 2012 for me and I have buried that night deep deep away..
University has ruined us all. I just had to clarify the last time I had sex as "No, not at the party we crawled home from in the snow. It was the one where you puked off the balcony and hit the barbecue."
One minute you were celebrating, the next you were bleeding all over your Nikes.
I woke up this morning with a sharpie tramp stamp. Pretty sure it's a picture of a squirrel.
So here's a brief summary of my weekend: last night I drank four glasses of Death Punch, grabbed the toaster, said "This is mine", put it in my pants and walked out the front door.
I think we can say happy hour is successful when you have frosting and southern comfort in your hair.
I'm actually more excited that I had so much sex this weekend that my ovaries hurt
Randomize