Drinking wine. Reading twilight. On a Friday night. Biggest loser contest. First Place.
If a young child walked up to you and grabbed your penis, you'd feel violated too.
But Monday we'll be living in a post-apocalyptic hellscape. Also, I'm going to a champagne tasting.
I demand visitation hours with the duck.
He probably smells like baby powder and sexual identity crisis.
I have so many hands. So. Many. Hands. I can feel arms that I don't have yet. They tickle. I can see the blood in my eyes. I think something is happening. The hands!!! I'm ticking myself with hands I don't have yet! I can't stop giggling about my notyet hands!
Just when I thought he had turned a new leaf, I see a "Let me get you pregnant" shirt in his closet
Thank god for federal credentials. Waaaaayyyy to hungover to go through airport security lines right now.
I yield to the immortal wisdom of one ludacris, who famously wrote, "can't turn a hoe in to a housewife." Indeed, ludacris, indeed.
I choose McDonald's breakfast at 1:28am over sex anytime
I needed tweezers to get my thong out of my ass this morning.
Hey! Happy Birthday! Could you do me a favor and bring my underwear to the bar?
The boob job was worth every penny just to see the expression of pure joy on his face the first time he saw them.
My hook-up from last week somehow found me at the club, saw the girl I was trying to fuck, kissed me right in front of her, and walked off.
Will exercising make me less horny?
Randomize
