You don't want to know about my weekend. You have absolutely no interest in the carefully reconstructed timeline of Groundhog Day or late-night sushi or trying to clean the filthy, filthy kitchen floor mats in my Concrete Bunker, the porn at Agent Provocateur, my epic grouchiness at having missed aerials class, or what I think of Amy Chua's Day of
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If your penis man is not the same as my pigface man, I think we have got a serious problem on our hands. (Figurative hands! 'Cause like: Ew!)
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