Our relationship is like that beach boys song "help me Rhonda" and I'm fucking Rhonda. And Rhondas's the whore in case you've never heard it.
she blew me in the men's room in the restaurant. it was a french bistro, so it was okay
I can't figure out how to get this beer bong in my carry on without airport security questioning me as it goes through the x-ray.
decision: in honor of being in new orleans this weekend all my drunk texts will be en francais
she's crying and begging for her chapstick and insisting on walking home...her every thursday ritual
its so hard to text. the buttons are tickling my fingers
I HAVE A PIGEON IN MY JACKET.
I BIT YOU IN THE DINING ROOM. I bit you and you crunched
If you can count on one hand the number of times you have actually, truly nearly died this month, then you are not really living yet.
I may or may not be wearing slippers and a TMNT hat. This thing better not have a dress code.
What I thought was my travel sanitizer was actually my travel lube. Most awkward transit ride of all time!
We just had sex on an abandoned logging road while wearing snow shoes. God bless Montana boys.
I'm getting paid to get fucked up. How much better could this get?
Bro, that'd be the third dick I've taken down in the office.
I got some blow and a hand job from one of the strippers. So I guess I'm getting over the divorce.
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