I woke up this morning with I hate myself feeling
I have a story that starts with Nutella and ends with sex in the laundry building at RIT.
Listen, it's not like I meant to bust the window out. It just sort of happened. And I'm also sorry for stealing your dads bandanas.
My penis has a 100% approval rating. He has never received a formal complaint. If you'd like to file one, you can go fuck yourself.
And at least you didn't have a dinner of Ranch Pringles and Double Stuff Oreos. I forgot that part of being single.
I have got to stop singing on voicemails. I just left my dad a 6 minute musical message.
Meeting his dad and brother for the first time at the jail while I'm bailing him out ISN'T exactly how I pictured this relationship going....
i think the theme of this summer is "shitting in weird locations."
I am gathering blankets and bags of horse grain to pad my truck bed so I have a comfy place to crash when I get home, without the inconvenience of stairs. Or doors. Or walking. But with the refreshing scent of molasses.
I would come over if there was not the impending fear of me shitting out my brains.
Medically speaking as your gynecologist and your girlfriend, that is not a rash.
And we're breaking up
I woke up sandwiched between them, all of us naked, and they were just sharing a cigarette, a donut, and the paper like it was just some normal post-threesome Sunday brunch.
so in case you needed a ticket for the Hot Mess Express, I'm the conductor now.
This whole Rob and Chyna drama is giving me trust issues. I'm about to text my ex and be like if you haven't already deleted my nudes, can you?
You WHAT?!?!
Paid. A. Homeless. Guy. To. Throw. A. Drink. In. Her. Face.
I fucking love you.
Randomize
