Yessssss I got my period.
I’ve really got to stop freaking myself out like this.
boobs
‘Murica.
So I’m sitting here flipping through Playboy and I’m like okay, you’ve got an article on fossils, an article on mud and stuff, I get it. And then I’m *finally* like boobs, finally! And then there’s a freaking article on Frank Sinatra and I’m like there just aren’t enough boobs in this magazine.
The Redhead, doing the exact opposite of “reading Playboy for the articles” proving once more why she is one of my best friends.
For some reason I doubt this shirt would be as effective on me.
Team Dinosaur’s new uniforms make quite the statement.
Allow me to reintroduce myself.
My name is boobs.
B-double o-b’s.
I used to move snowflakes by the o-z.
This. And every time I talk about sex with women/think about having sex with women/think about women, I feel like I am a thirteen-year-old boy. I like boobies way too much.
Every time I describe my sexual encounter with a girl, I feel like I am describing a thirteen-year-old boy’s porno fantasy.
It’s awkward.
Let’s pretend the perfect breasts aren’t there for a second. They would make my answer as to why I love this woman too obvious.
But let’s go over that little cat that ate the canary grin she pulls off time and time again in her pictures. Her cute little face. Her adorable little ‘tude.
She hasn’t turned up on here in a while. It’s probably because there are only so many ways I can say I want this woman to be my girlpet before it gets played. But, oh, it still rings true.