If it makes you feel any better I'm plucking my mustahce and drinking. Alone.
This is getting serious. I keep forgetting what's in my vagina.
you never know when you'll meet the man of your dreams and bang him in an elevator
your philanthropy is ruining my sex life.
I can't believe we had "50th anniversary of man in space" sex.
Take my keys. Load me into the vehicle. Drive. Get food. Come back. These are my demands.
I am too drunk to deal with your everything. Reread this everytime you feel the need to talk to me.
Blacked out, Had to be carried out of the bar again by two large black bouncers. Asked them to be my "boo thangz" Again.
So apparently we wrote "Lube Shopping" in Paula's diary on every friday for the rest on the year....
My stalker sent me an erotic poem. Who knew anyone could find a way to rhyme birth and girth so eloquently?
It'd probably just be a lot of profanity and hyperventilation and deteriorating into tears anyways
so just a regular conversation then
I just googled "creative ways to tell someone you'll give them a blow job". I'm losing my touch.
Welcome to the club of "Sick of cleaning up actual shit." We meet on the 3rd Sunday of each month. Bring your ceremonial viking helmet.
I refuse to believe you if you're trying to tell me humanity as a whole isn't sad, tired, and craving Chinese food.
If I die at work, I want you to have my mustache collection
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