Favstar gets even better if you sign in.
Making a fuss over a nipple is like salivating over the fucking cherry while missing the whole point of the cake.
Wondering why the term "debrief me" can't involve the forceful removal of underwear.
Some of your tweets are my darkest thoughts.
If you're here, you're as fragmented as the rest of us. Here, let me help you down from that high horse.
Loyalty isn't complicated at all.
Doesn't matter if someone thinks ill of you. The fact that they think of you at all means you take up their mental energy.
Fuck sexy. Bring maturity back.
It's not stupid if you've made a real connection with someone that has transcended these little boxes.
Please hold. We'll connect you to the attention you crave shortly.
Really, please look at your BF before thinking I might want his attention or male gaze. Really. Please.
Dude, if you swing between self-deprecation and swagger any more today, we are going to have to swap genitalia.
Wondering why tweeters are SO much better at flirting than Facebookers. Oh yes, forgot: the anonymity. Like a strip club, but with words.
If your falsely-inflated ego is measured by your Twitter life and its numbers, you must be just as awesome in real life, right? Of course.
When a woman does bitchy, it's expected. When you do it, I look for the pink glitter you glued to your balls.
This is definitely going to end in nothing less than a rage-fuck.
Sarcasm, having been raised on a steady diet of schadenfreude, knew it would always be the ugly stepsibling to Irony.
Sitting quietly, just off the intersection of Funny Avenue and Tragic Boulevard, watching.
My horniness isn't showing, is it?
Don't answer that.
My patience is facing the threat of extinction.
My dysfunction likes your dysfunction.