This is some kinda fucked up sordid doggy brothel peepshow bullshit.
If you die in college, do you die in real life?
What's the point in getting all dressed up and going when i'm just gonna throw up on myself by midnight?
At least it earned you a couple drinks. And something tells me you've touched grosser things with less incentive.
I saw him coke blaxckout on the subway at 9 this morning yelling at people callig himself the gatekeeper.
I'm sorry but that single bed couldn't hold all five of us, especially with those boobs.
I'll be there soon. I expect Advil and a bucket of kittens when I arrive.
I let him do a line off my nipple in exchange for his prescription pain pills. I feel like 3/4 Vegas stripper, 1/4 underbelly of society.
Did he seem like the type of guy that would maybe take weed as payment?
I feel like he better crank it up to level RG IV tomorrow. It's the fucking playoffs.
After a roaring rendition of Jay-Z's "99 Problems but a bitch ain't one" I ended up making her cry on her birthday.
They are the perfect team. One always has weed, the other always has cigarettes. They're like the Batman and Robin of drugs
You can't just say "I scored us a potential threesome" and then not text me back.
Oh yeah, you are a real peach except for shitting uncontrollably and bleeding out of your face.
Thank you for stroking my rage monster tonight.
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