sorry about last night, I don't know what happened but I woke up this morning and looked strikingly similar to courtney love, it had to be bad.
the beat of "birthday sex" is shockingly similar to my dry heaving rhythm. it's making me nauseous all over again.
the choice between paying your electricity bill and getting herpes medicine is a tough one.
My blowjobs put them in a state of relaxation similar to that of getting hit with a tranquilizer. The fear comes after the sex.
I keep telling myself last night was not real, not real, not real. Then I remember I can't move. This hangover is too fucking real.
I give you full permission to fuck a rando on my air mattress.
him being a republican bothers me way more than his coke problem.
Why is it so hot and why are these the only pants in my life.
Good morning sunshine. Care to hear the riveting tale of Michelle and the Almost Great Night That Ended In An Early Morning of Karma Emptying It's Bowels On Her Guilty Shoulders?
SORRY BITCH CAN'T, TAKING SHOTS TO WHITNEY HOUSTON.
The smell came through my closed door. His farts are made of rendered tires, and apparently, ghosts.
I need Mexican food. Like, I'd take it through a needle at this point. It's totally worth the track marks.
I slept with one of the directors so you would get a good price on the ballroom for your reception. I'm the best MOH. You owe me bitch
woke up in the back seat of my car with a naked chick and my brother tapping on the window. yup, what a night
of fours songebofy did dknt stop believing
how legible are my texts
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