I found the seven page love letter I had written you. I'm sorry i was so obsessed.
you said "tonight pinky, we take over the world" and then came in my face
she told me i tasted like america
i don't know where i am. i made bad decisions. i think this guy is dead.
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My drunk body wants to fuck you so bad, but my high mind is telling me it's too much work. I think I'm just gonna stay home and eat some Mac and cheese. Sorry.
She refered to her bed as the "cockpit"....I understand that this morning.
The two guys from next door helped him do a backflip. The ended up throwing him halfway through a ceiling tile. Don't worry, we fixed it with duct tape.
Its 6 am and me and the girl in the next apartment have been taking turns puking and yelling "never agaaaain" thru the walls.
Off topic, but is it sad that Matthew and I are calculating how much sex we need to have in order to work off a taco bell burrito?
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This is that think about life weed. Thank god I'm in American lit this semester. I can actually write papers in this vat of introspective stoned.
I'll be there with bells on. And by "bells" I mean "jäger bombs". And by "on" I mean "being poured down my gullet".
When he's drowning in your chest and he muffles out the words 'I just want to live here' that's a compliment right?
The guy I hooked up with last night left me alone with his dog AND IT JUST SHIT ON THE FLOOR. WHAT DO I DO
Woke up with a padlock locked onto my ear gauge and the first of many sticky note clues on my chest leading to the key.
Do you remember trying to eat the shower curtain last night...?
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