So the next morning, she had to tell her kids we were moving furniture around all night.
When she talks to me all I hear are 5 generations of inbreeding speaking.
I don't know what happen last night but the fact that it's 9 am and I need to put my dick in something means it didn't go as planned.
I just masturbated to the audio from my psych lecture . . . this screwing my prof fantasy is getting serious.
John stretched a condom over his face and tried to puke in it.
I really appreciate you zipping up my pants at the bar. You didn't even ruin my Bermuda triangle.
Okay: Whipped cream, vodka, and a trampoline. This will either be really great, or really tragic.
How do I politely say my vagina is not a chew toy and if you bite me again I will slap you?
You could say take it easy, whoa there, be gentle, anything that doesn't fully convey the horror.
In college, I had one standard. Penis. A lot has changed since then. Now I really only have one standard. Breathing.
I may or may not have just ruined a marriage. But in my defense I got all my drinks for free tonight.
I found my hair extensions. They were in my hamper.
New reason to drink: alcohol makes soda taste like goddamn gold.
there was a goddamn geisha at house. my dick feels more cultured.
drinking vodka out of a wine glass to feel a little bit classier about myself.
My life is pants optional.
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