recycled a plan b box. kill a baby. save a tree.
He measures volume by how much weed he can put in it and surface area by how many people can have sex in it.
My afternoon will now be spent googling genital warts. I think my life is over.
He sent a pic, I sent one back. Then nothing. It's like we sext-messaged goodbye and ended the relationship.
I was just expressing concern for your pickle consumption.
The barista asked if I wanted my drink wet or dry, but all that came to mind was farts. You have ruined me.
I'm bringing Sergeant Single Slut out this weekend. I hope you're ready for her.
Come make me food. I feel like if I go in the kitchen I will just get Gin.. and pass out in there.
It'd probably just be a lot of profanity and hyperventilation and deteriorating into tears anyways
so just a regular conversation then
I knew full well that at some point during the night my penis would be out with this costume choice
I wound up running down the street in 12 degree weather in just my bra and then fell asleep cuddling my bottle. You tell me how last night went.
I think someone cast a spell on the lazy stoner rich boy stereotype and it came to life and called me.
We got drunk, we had raw sex and we discussed about the showrunner change in Doctor Who, in that order.
I kept telling you not to give them blowjobs, but you kept screaming back, "it's okay, we're friends on facebook!"
can you come here so we can have really loud sex? the girl upstairs walks so loud i want her to know how it feels
of course
Randomize
