So, I woke up to an empty bottle of scotch and a dead car. The last thing I remember are the strippers being mad at me. Awesome night.
Feels good to be wearing underwear again though...
cell reception changed and I can no longer text you from the toilet... that means I'll be texting you less often, just fyi
only you would end up drunk at a subway with a one-eyed homeless man
im honestly just eating salsa and looking at his penis
explaining to a nurse how i all most cut my finger off playing beer pong, she def just hand me a AA booklet.
When you hit the 45 minute mark of any argument about The Flintstones, you have to realize: it's no longer you arguing, it's the cocaine arguing.
We are, if nothing else, classy enough to leave our 10 mini bottles of wine in a polite line on the floor of the movie theater.
Apparently I yelled "no stop it" in my sleep last night when he tried to cuddle with me.
Oops, guess its official. I just use him for sex.
Well I don't think you can suck his dick while he's making pizza. I think that goes against some health codes.
My head feels like Jesus is projectile vomiting hammers on it
Sending out old nude selfies with the message "#tbt"
Well, if it makes you feel any better I'll be drinking tequila and doing lines on Halloween. Just like old days.
Based on his face I'm positive he has a beautiful penis.
My loniness meter has reached its peak. I just played shadow puppets using my Big Mac on the wall with my cats
I Projectile vomited a massive question mark on Brent's bedroom wall. Don't tell him it was me. I want him to play the whodunit game.
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