I'm sitting next to this guy at the bar. I wrote him a little song in my head it goes "there is no fucking chance you're getting in my pants" gonna sing it to him after he buys me another drink.
And why did 3 people fail to stop me from literally getting a piggy back ride from the bar to his apartment?!
I don't think I have but I might've died. If I have then come get me, I'm in the flower bed. And still game.
Alright, deal. Settling two drug deals before noon is what I call a productive day. I'm not even gonna go to math, I've practiced enough numbers for the day.
My pubes were yanked out by the root when they got caught in the condom. I think it's time for a bikini wax.
I just want dates and sex but the option to have that with whoever whenever I want
The low-flow toilet at my office cannot handle the intensity of this hangover.
From the same High Brittany who brought you such thoughts as, "Fuck, am I wearing shoes?" Comes High Brittany on a date! Stay tuned. This will be interesting.
So the woman who sold us weed at the park is pregnant. With another small child. And the basket she used to carry the joints is decorated with Barney stickers.
She's like a yuppie Nancy Botwin. She just gets better and better.
First time for everything: started posting a Facebook comment, decided I'm not quite sober enough. Progress.
Those boxers don't belong to me anymore. They belong to the desert surrounding Phoenix.
That was right around the time that the drunken mess pulled out his dick in front of myself and like 10 other people and started peeing all over the train platform while saying, "Sometimes a bear gets you brother. Sometimes a bear gets you."
Pretty standard Thursday night commute for you, no?
...take a good look at your butthole.... then try matching it to any paint color on the Benjamin Moore color wheel....not gonna happen...
I'm on a walk of shame carrying YOUR pants. You owe me.
Omg, new summer goal: sex in a bouncy castle.
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