It's just you. You wear the fuck me fedora and wear baller shorts, hollywood hippie who thinks she is shakira when she's drunk.
You keep asking me questions like I have this magical thing called a memory
I just punched cris angel in the balls. I have photos.
Took her home last night and it was like trying to put an oyster in a slot machine. I may have drank a little too much.
She was so drunk yelling at me in my driveway to fuck her. It was the ghetto version of Romeo and Juliet.
I'm wearing the bright blue sombrero all through the airport as a sign of triumph that I survived spring break. I'm getting compliments
I need to remember that good judgment goes out the window after the 7th shot and the 3rd Lady GaGa song.
I miss your penis. I'm telling you this as a friend, like its just a really great penis. You should be proud of it.
Cracked my iPhone screen. Real bad. Girl from last night isn't ugly yet. Stop me if you still think she belongs under a bridge. You have 12 seconds.
...if you're living vicariously thought me, that was a great blow job you just gave in the B&N parking lot.
FUCK YOU. AH. FUCK BOTH OF US MORE BOOZE.
MAS TEQUILA.
You screamed "There's a potato in my anus" and proceeded to attempt to grind with the bouncer. Also, I'm pretty sure our Chem teacher was in the same bar as us.
Just got my stitches out.. Now I can give a proper hand job
I wore home his HoHoHo boxers. I've never felt such a connection to an article of clothing.
Somebody put William Shatner singing Bohemian Rhapsody on the jukebox, and the whole bar is about to riot.
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