god damn woman. you are like the herpes of drunk texting. you never go away.
we just toasted to your mouth on alex's balls at the bar
My coke dealer called me at midnight just to ask how to spell a word. Not sure how I should feel about that.
This is final. The chair stays in the bathroom, we are too old to be puking from the floor, grown ups sit in chairs infront of the toilet to puke.
Or grown ups don't drink themselves into vomiting.
You could have chosen coming to fuck me over getting too hammered to drive. But you made your bed, and now you get to jack off alone in it.
Just talked to Kate. She said I called her on Friday night. She said I was crying for 5 minutes because we were parked in front of a fire hydrant.
He asked for a foot job. Whatever. I guess I'm swimming in new slut waters tonight.
I have a callous on the palm of my hand just below my ring finger that is entirely from opening so many beer bottles. I'm strangely proud right now.
The less fucks you give, the more fucks you get. Kinda like "a penny saved is a penny earned" but with vagina.
You'd think the neighbors would be used to grown men coming into my house drunk at 230 am.
You know you're fucked up when you decide to pour fireball whiskey in your vegetable beef soup
Eating a chocolate bar and crying over a cobweb. Life is beautiful and I love shrooms.
Well, it's a fine line between people-watching and boob-staring. It's a gray area. But we're in Paris. Let's leave it at that.
I think snapchat is trying to tell you something. It's saying your boobs were meant to be seen by his family.
I need to buy fuckboy repellant for whenever I think it's a good idea to meet boys I found in tinder
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