Let's just say there is a bloody hand print above my bed and it's not mine. Literally.
Is it really that bad? I heard it was like pooping. I like pooping.
Miserable. My projectile vomit just woke me up from a 5.5 hour nap.
I now beleive the Trojan Ecstasy ad "feels like nothing's there". They forgot to add "...cause the condom broke."
I was walking around outside with a basket of eggs. I feel like little house on the prairie: hungover edition.
I think 2012 will be the year I purposely put myself in awkward situations. Much like 2011 but really trying this time. Like fucking the little sister of a girl I already fucked and dating a chick that lives with her ex. It could be awesome or horrible.
And I really REALLY don't feel like cleaning cinnamon off my penis tonight.
I made a side by side comparison of her Facebook pic and the chick on the anti meth billboards. Plus a ven diagram showing mostly shared physical attributes. I sent u the PowerPoint. You were sufficiently warned.
It's okay. I've dumbed down my notes over the semester because I knew I wouldn't be up to understanding things come finals.
It's like they're playing jeopardy and the category is "things that make women dry."
Last night dinner was cinnamon buns and whiskey. At least tonight I had a fajita with my cookies and tequila. I may be a little stressed about these end of semester tests.
Then he texted me that I was the "good kind" of fat.
It's 2016 and I am a strong independent woman who just wants someone not weird to touch my butt, dammit
Guys are like someone else's baby; i'll play with them but if responsibility is involved i'll hand them off.
I'm definitely not mad. My best friend is dating my drug dealer, it's impossible to be mad.
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