Any day that starts with a call from my ex-bf... crying... is a good day.
Every perfect package comes with a warning label.
She was having a seizure right in front of you, and you asked, "So there's no more donuts?"
I'm sports announcer narrating myself making a sandwich. Your weed wins.
Masturbating on the clock at work is my specialty.
She sucks enough dick that I could make her mouth a legitimate Yelp location.
He autographed my vag. This fuck just got authentic.
I was expecting it to be of the "I am your vagina's reckoning" caliber.
If you come home and I'm pantsless with cake smeared all over my face, I'm sorry.
I look like a bag of dicks so if you could ugly yourself up that'd be great.
Better safe and shitfaced than hungover and in need of another surgery.
What has my life come to that I have to spank someone in morse code?
Remember how I have such good luck that it's almost bullshit?
I'm afraid to ask, but go on.
I legitimately just had to leave work because I am too hungover. The front office ladies keep making fun of me.
Just cuz u chase vodka with sweet tea doesn't make it sweet tea vodka
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