I had a long pep-talk with my penis that ended in "I love you, I'll try harder and I'm sorry."
I could write a book called "things that come out of my vagina"
My relaxing drive may end up as a surprise bootycall in Pittsburgh. Don't try to stop me.
He lectured me about the dangers of drugs while wearing a sombrero and doing interpretive dance.
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I will come over now to take full advantage of you in your vulnerable state.
Fine. I should warn you I just threw up in danas fish tank. Fish are dead. Livers dead. I smell and look like a dead animal. And not showering. So deal with it.
I really appreciate you zipping up my pants at the bar. You didn't even ruin my Bermuda triangle.
I'm going home because your Crackraptor step-brother tried getting his nasty meat hawks in my pants last night.
Are you feeling okay?
Right now, not a single thing feels even slightly okay. That hungover.
I mean I'm not saying I have my life together but I did just put nerds in a bottle of champagne and then drank from the bottle
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And I'm sorry for punching you in the face when I drunkenly threw my sandwich
My feelings for him are donzo molonzo but I can't turn down a pierced penis...
I threw up in the bathtub last night like a decent human being.
If you're not my stylist, having sex with me, or agreeing to have sex with me don't fucking touch my hair.
Update on my sex life: my calves are sore from masturbating too much. It's a thing. Look it up.
So I guess I walked across campus with "pat my ass" in sharpie on my forehead.
You deserve it, you colossal cock block.
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