Cold hands, warm shart.
awesome recipe for disaster- bar hopping at the airport
My bracket is officially just a list of teams that lost.
This is a drunk text message. I am so glad that we are friends. Tomorrow we will eat sandwiches in miniature. We both love dogs. Flower.
You showed the cops outside of the bar your boobs and then decided to go apologize to them. They admitted that the reason they hung out there was because of girls like you.
And then I learned that we are dating when I said it's out of line to bring fuck buddies home to meet the parents. And then I was single.
Exactly. Because my vagina can't be consoled with words. It requires a thicker form of communication
I am drunk. Riding an elevator. You can smell the beer. Doctor on with me just smiling at me... He agrees, fuck cancer.
So tomorrow I have my performance review with my boss who I banged. When I go in should I ask if this review will be rating my sex or work performance?
I'm scared to touch anything in this apartment. Even the ceiling.
I feel like we need to find him and explain that if the two of them would just fuck he'd understand.
It reeks of weed and poor life decisions in here
Like these jerks could have told me it wasn't a video call, I wouldn't have put on pants.
I don't feel like that was meant as a compliment, but really still feels like one
YOU'D BE LIKE A MERMAID! I'll bring you coffee filters to cover your tits.
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