На главную
Результаты поиска “Can cymbalta fuck you up” за 2011
Crushed...-\3
 
06:03
Depression hurts, Cymbalta can help... Fuck Cymbalta.. Thanks for watching!
Просмотров: 29 TeenLife213
OASIS - [five]
 
00:06
Hey, thank you for reading. ^^ And if you guys could like, tell your friends or subscribers about me ? I would be so grateful and I'd just love you. - "And then, this self-entitled, egotistical asshole walks out. He walks out! Do you believe that?" I finally concluded my venting, after raging on for the majority of our time making rounds at all of the nearby clubs. Finishing the story had me recounting my feelings of embarressment and anger had me gripping the end of blunt a little too severely and taking a long, well-deserved drag. David was eyeing a swaying blonde on the dancefloor, "I think you're just pissed because he saw through your routine." My mouth gaped open for a retort but David quickly contended to his response, "What I'm saying is that all the guys that you play games with are the same. They're just big, horny, dumbasses trying to hop into bed with you and you try to play with them like they're your toys until you get bored." "You're making it sound like I'm a child." I said, warning him that his seemingly light lecture was coursing with dangerous phrasing. He dismissed my accusation, "It's like you use these boys for your entertainment," He paused to puff quietly on his own cigarette, "And you don't even put out." I gasped at the accusation, the white smoke wisping rashly into my lungs, "Untrue, untrue! I . . ." Almost struggling to find the appropriate words, "reward to the ones who deserve it." David scoffed, "The last time you 'rewarded' anyone, I thought I loved Olivia Wilde's ass but in reality, I love the designers that were pressed against that tiny bitch." His witty satire causing me to burst into a fit of laughter so intense that I had fallen down the wall we were leaning against and I'd completely ignored the fact he'd mocked my two month (unfairly) long restraint from sex. Still coming down from my hilarity high, I said through chuckles, "It's not like I choose to not have sex. It's just that everyone in New York sucks at it when they're drunk." Faintly recalling a lovely young gentleman groping all the wrong things and then finally finishing too early before she could even 'get her bearings' if you catch the gist. David snorted, "I think it's better when they're drunk. The drunk ones let me be the pitcher." He quirked up a brow and gained a suggestive smirk. I let my tongue roll out of my mouth and an impromptu groan ripped through my throat, easily resembling a dry heave, "First of all, gross. And secondly, you're dealing with a whole 'nother type of team on the field. I've got right fielders on third base when they should be p--" "Sweetheart, let me stop you right there because if my father couldn't help me understand sports terms -- and God bless the man, did he try -- you sure as hell have got no luck piercing this rainbow painted brain with any athletic lingo." Another spasm of giggling burst though me. . . . Locking the door to my seventh floor apartment, I walked down the hall and began jogging down the first flight of stairs. Hopping down the final few steps, I turned my attention to my keys and walked towards my undeniably tortured Corolla and slipped my key into the slot and unlocking the door. I sighed once I'd settled into the drivers seat and began to speak to her, "Alright, Roxanne. Baby, I'm gonna need you to start for me today. I really need to go get groceries because I'm so goddamn hungry, okay?" I held the key hovering just before the small recess on the side of the wheel. I held my breath, "Please, please, please . . ." Prattling silent encouragement's and genuine pleas to the inanimate machinery. She sputtered hopelessly, roaring a horribly mangled screech before belting a torturous chirring and finally winding down to a silence. I wrung the steering wheel between my grip and maintained a composure that was quickly clawing away at her tolerance. Holding back my upcoming temper tantrum was pointless. Belting out an overdue scream, I began twisting in my chair and pelting my fists to connecting with parts of my car: the dashboard, the passenger seat, and somehow I had reached the back seat in my blind rage. The car began to rock with my frantic movements and earned a few sideways glances by people shuffling along the sidewalk. And than, my personal rant of insanity began. "Goddamn, good-for-nothing, piece of shit car!" "--can't even fucking start!" "I'd sell you, but who the hell would want you?!" My tirade was suddenly disrupted by a light knock against my window. And then, I was eye to eye with the most remarkable hazel irises that I'd only seen once before.
Просмотров: 52 Ellie Mourney