There is something about listening to Patsy Cline while pooping that makes the experience so much better.
she called me a fuckfaceshitdick. not that's creative. it sounds like a crayola crayon, preferrably an orange-brown shade.
You were doing downward dog and puking off my deck at the same time.
Worst PDA I've ever seen. She even licked the mustard off his mustach
I really couldn't tell if she was disgusted with the fact that I yacked on her shoes, or if she was about to do the same to me.
I mean I'm not worried about us not getting wasted. I'm more worried that I'll be doing a Boris yeltzen impression by 1030.
I cleared a drunken path to my bed for you. If you hit clothes you've gone too far.
Um...any recollection of peeing in the pantry
Please put me on a plane and hypontize me into forgetting the little bit of last night that I do remember.
He compared my blow job skills to finding gold treasure in a gold chest, so there's that.
I guess I just don't understand how the two main issues with your ex involve a cock ring and a Christmas tree
I'm kinda glad you won't be in Vegas tomorrow because you'd make us go streaking or throw dead animals at them.
Fortunatly we found him, he was on my roof. Unfortunatly, we can't say the same for his pants. Still looking. BRB.
Do you think the hole in the ceiling will count against our security deposit?
Slept in and having coffee. No sounds of whipping and no veiny dildos next to me. This is good. How's your mornin?
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