Decided to write a book called "girls don't poop and other myths I wish I still believed in"
@ a funeral. fucking miss uuuu
I hate it when I can only see straight when I close one eye. I feel like that deserts the purpose of seeing with two eyes
I feel like every car around me knows I'm driving in my snuggie
My brain is officially off for summer until late august. If that guy wants to fuck me, he better do it soon.
In a cab. Towels everywhere. Confused.
I wish I could like. Pull my liver out, and put it in the corner of a boxing ring, put a towel and ice on it, rub it's shoulders, and tell it to "get back in there, you got this!".
Good news, I found your other leg warmer. Bad news, I don't know if the pile of puke I found it in was yours.
No worries. It'll grow back. I mean, hey, my eyebrows grew back after he shaved them off. So it's all good.
You kept apologizing for not offering me some of your Whisky, which you referred to as "Jesus Nectar".
I feel like this is the moment of high where you have to write these texts down to remember to text them and feel that somehow this is important to the continuity of the world.
I'm pretty sure my lung is caught on my rib. And I can't feel the left side of my face. Best. Sex. Ever.
I made out with him in the club and he endorsed me on Linkedin. My networking skills are off the charts.
I'm 4,715,723% sure I don't give a fuck.
When I get off work and you're not around to hang out with all I do is lay around in my underwear and eat potatoes.
Randomize
