God gave me these boobs for a reason other than for people to throw things down them.
the more i look through evidence of last night, the less i seem to remember.
For some reason I have a hard time believing getting drunk and recreating a movie about singing transvestites is ever very far from a situation you're in.
I'd rate him "doable" on a scale from "ew, run" to "you should've already fucked him".
That's about an "8" on normal scales.
So some sort of safe sex group just flash mobbed the bar by putting condoms over people's beers.
They left screaming as a hale of lubbed up condoms rained into their hair.
I'm sorry, when did "I like your shit" become an acceptable pickup line?
The last thing I remember was you puking all over the inside of my door and him yelling "PUKING RALLY!!!"
I owe a guy a shoe because I threw it over a fence. That is all.
Why do I even exist?
So I went tanning and I burned my boobs.
They're like sad pomegranates.
She kept asking for cigarettes, than just put them in her purse as "savings"
I dont' remember leaving St. Cloud, getting home, or apparently directing traffic in the middle of the fucking street while black out drunk.
Blacked-in to me, shirtless, giving myself finger guns in the mirror and rapping "stacks in the club stacks stacks in the club."
The struggle bus has heated seats and stops at Dunkin on Friday mornings so I'll be okay.
I always felt my time would come in the form of a tidal wave of whisky
Step 1 was make out with him. so now we just need to come up with step 2.
Randomize
