so he expects you to be his vegas whore for the season. nice.
If they ask for a stool sample we r no longer friends.
I was giving him a blow job in the kitchen, but it was uncomfortable. so i took the oven mitts and used them as knee pads.
Don't tell me i'm not fucking resourceful.
it went kinda like vodka, childhood memories, screaming/cursing, fist fight, tears, broken shit, passing out. in that order. tis the season.
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He soundtracked our prebreakup sex, our breakup, and out postbreakup sex. At least he's dedicated.
His hands were made for my vagina.
I don't want to die alone with cake watching shows about cake
We left his house because I forgot how to drink water, I was just holding it in my mouth and then spitting it out, needless to say I don't remember the sex.
HI MARY. THERE IS A RAINBOW AT OUR APARTMENT
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correction: my vagina hates that I'm smart.
It was all good till you had ppl chasin shots of ciroc with fucking applesauce
When I go out tonight I need to make sure to be really good. The Easter bunny doesn't deliver to jail
eh, I feel I'm heading for a breakdown and I need to get it out of the way before I start writing that lab report.
I tried to be mean but not so mean that he won't bone me next weekend
You know, this is NOT how I pictured my life would be when I was younger, and yet here we are.