It's like the Sean Connery of vaginas. You don't mess with it.
We talked about all of the sex positions that would better allow him to feed me grapes. I think I'm in love.
You yelled "sharpie war!" then jammed it in her ear
I've come to the conclusion while folding laundry and watching porn that I may be dead inside.
I wish Samuel L. Jackson would narrate our bar crawls
Please put me in a whole with no windows and never let me out.
I'm at work, and just realized I the beer smell I keep getting random whiffs of is my bra. I fail at life.
I definitely pole-danced a parking meter outside a party last night. The cheering was appreciated.
You don't care if I shave my legs, but you insist I be conscious for sex. Whatever. I really think your priorities are out of whack.
The smell came through my closed door. His farts are made of rendered tires, and apparently, ghosts.
It's not that I even wanna fuck these guys anymore, just cuddle that's all. My conscience has never been so proud.
Apparently I yelled "Spring Break 1984" at a drunk couple fighting on the side of the road.
I feel like I missed the land of milk and honey and instead wound up in the land of beer and pizza. And yet, I think I'm happier here.
Tip: never mention Guy Fieri during sex
I threw up in my brother's Easter basket
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