I have a story that starts with Nutella and ends with sex in the laundry building at RIT.
I don't know what's worse, the fact that my parents own a sex swing or the fact that my little cousin was playing on it
I hit him with a car. Nothing says I hate you more than backing into someone with a fucking car.
I always figured rock bottom would've involved more hookers
Hey remember that night when you sang Fergie to me? I think that's the exact moment in time when the thought "I could be faithful to this man" came into serious consideration.
He's going to be my graduation present to myself.
When i'm home next we need to get baked and go to waffle house. I want to see if the waitress can still guess my intoxication level and what i'm about to order before i even make it to the table.
LOOK AT MY ASS AND LEGS IN THIS SKIRT. I KNOW ALL THE BEST HIDING SPOTS IN THIS BUILDING. AND I OFFER TEQUILA.
See, I'm just thinking of how...angular my room is. You probably would have sustained brain damage
And you said I'm not athletic, I rubbed one out with my sports band on, it's the same as walking 1/4 mile.
Just for once I'd like my first interaction with a new GP to not be an obvious sex injury.
It isn't about the beer pong. It is about the destruction of the patriarchy.
These last few days with George, grandma, and now Carrie all dying have been pushing me further and further into rum's sweet embrace.
You'll probably laugh but I am currently in bed in the fetal position wrapped in only my ninja turtles towel. Save me.
How you run into a glAss door three times in a row I do not know
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