We've done the math and the dogs tails are wagging at a rate of 3000 wags per hour. Stoned.
I vaguely remember you trying to make me a casserole with marshmallows and a can of beer.
I may or may not be taking a bath listening to the Phantom of the Opera. This lovely moment brought to you by xanax.
She had forties taped to her hands and was trying to give him a hand job while he was passed out, with everyone in the living room.
You may see me wearing your shirt to class. It's because I still have the spins and I'm anticipating throwing up on it. Asshole.
I can't believe you picked a finger in the ass over lunch with me.
Every single person in NY is either baking, drinking, or photographing their cat. Reporting live from Instagram.
...You tried to use your wallet to call her after you gave your cell phone to the cab driver as a "peace offering"
Simple math equation: Up till 5 a.m. drinking + up at 9 a.m. for nephews birthday party = puking in the pool
As a general rule of thumb, I don't call until the claw marks have healed.
And that facial hair. He might as well shave it so it spells "douche" on one cheek and "nozzle" on the other.
I'm glad your nude photos turned out "classy" but you cannot hang them in the living room.
Lots of tissues. Maybe pizza. Only time will tell. The stages of political grief.
I'm taking pictures of my asshole to send to my boss. This is not what I had in mind the day after thanksgiving.
Sextember may be over, but Cocktober is just beginning!!!
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