If I fall asleep at my desk, I give all of you permission to sharpie swear words on my face.

Because I was hoping to leave early anyway.

I wish my boobs were big enough to titty-fuck.

Because sometimes, my real orifices aren't in the mood.



But my tits are up for anything.

My BF washes all his new clothes before he wears them.

That's so cute.

Me, I generally wear them out of the store. Under my old clothes.

You're either with me... or you're in my trunk, thrashing around, fucking up the rhythm of NIN's "Closer" as I speed through a school zone.

After 2 weeks on Twitter, my fiancé sighed and said, "Jesus, don't these fuckers ever SLEEP?"

No, Baby. The answer is no.

I tried to tell my boyfriend last night that I love him more than Twitter.

He said, "Don't lie to me, it makes me feel cheap." Lights out.

I finished writing my wedding vows. It took 7 months but I've successfully worked in the Madonna Speech from Reservoir Dogs, so we're good.

How to test your job security:

1) Miss a deadline.
2) Call the deadline preposterous.
3) Challenge boss to do the work by said deadline.

It's my wedding day, so I imagine people will be checking for the "I'm going to grab some cigarettes & not coming back" look in my eyes.

My low self-esteem can kick your low self-es.... oh, fuck it. No it can't. Because it's stupid and ugly and WORTHLESS.

Kids who delete accounts & then come back are the same people who fantasize about suicide just to see who would miss them & what they'd say.

Have you ever put a tampon in while driving and wearing tight jeans?

I have. And I should get a fucking medal for it.




Difficulty: 8.7

You're never too old to become a better cocksucker.

My resolution was something about self respect, but I blacked out & my pussy feels like a Big Montana, so I must have had a better offer.

I finally made the leaderboard, so I'm quitting my job, hitting the liquor store & starting a new couch-based career in self-hype.

If anyone wants to get me a wedding gift, I'm registered at The Pleasure Chest and Charlie Sheen's dealer's house.

Thanks to Twitter & good headphones, I guess I yelled, "Son of a cunt!" at my desk. I am quite impressed with the efficiency of our HR dept.

I faked an orgasm last night while masturbating. I don't even know if there's a therapist out there who could handle this level of sad.

I rarely answer my phone. I assume everyone is like me and is elated when they don't actually have to participate in a conversation.

I love spending half of the day thinking it is Tuesday when it's actually Wednesday.

Despite the brain damage concerns, it's a nice fuckup.