I have one thing to say: spongebath.
I wish that wasn't all you had to say. And by that, I mean I wish you hadn't said that at all.
I can't wait til my little brother reaches the point where puking doesn't mean we stop drinking
She woke up laying on my kitchen floor, ketchup bottle as her pillow, in front of my fridge.
He told me that I smelled like a Glade Plug-in, then sang the Menard's jingle in it's entirety in between kissing me.
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I made out with Jen. We were naked. I'm still gay. Forever
I wish Samuel L. Jackson would narrate our bar crawls
I found him down the block clinging to a light post laughing and crying because a house "looked like it had buck teeth"
Every time I someone I meet again from that wedding it turns into the "Oh your the guy who puked in the hallway and passed out in front of the elevator."
I mean, the sex was awesome last weekend, but I didn't even imagine I'd reached ovarian rupture status.
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He sent me a snapchat of himself growing a double chin. I think we're past the stage where there's any risk of us sleeping together. Ever.
Using all my books as packing buffer for my liquor bottles. And you said being an English major was worthless.
Did I try to sell your body for chicken tenders last night?
Well I just saw a fully naked man doing a headstand in a cooler of ice water.
I think I'm emotionally ready to start being a slut again. I'm excited.
I may just have to resign myself to life in flats. He's a sexy little chipmunk that worships me.
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