If i'm not hungover, near death, and wondering what i did the night before on Monday, life is not worth living.
The maintenance guy at work just asked me out for a drink. For once, I proudly said that I was 20.
I'm hiding her cosmo magazine. the only sex tip she needs is to not handcuff her boyfriend to her roommates bed and lose the key
Moment of the day: as we leave the restaurant, she reaches into my pocket, pulls out her panties, and angrily marches to her car. I felt like a sketchy magician.
All I want is to send a text that says "i slept with someone while wearing nothing but purple argyle socks this weekend." But the only person i would send that to is you. But you already know. Because they were your socks.
You texted me a picture of your face along with #help
Sorry brah. Drastic times called for drastic measures and I had to go home and bang a cougar.
Is this the point in which we come to terms with our lesbianism or is that after you send me more ass pics...
I am at a new level of appreciation for drunk-you, who threw up into her own sweatshirt pocket last night in the car. Brava.
I stared at him for a solid five minutes because he looked like what I imagine god would look like if god was a lumberjack
I tried to break it off with the married one. He offered to pay off my car.
The side bitch struggle is real.
I'm very aware of my heart moving the blood in my body.
I appreciate the I'll come bail you out of jail tone in the text
I was just at Kroger and saw some guy with a steelers balloon... ran up to him and popped it. NO RAGRETS.
His dick smelled like strawberries...it was awesome.
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