This is what happens when Tinder gets boring and a woman experiments outside of her comfort zone. That fucking thing is one "let met talk to your manager haircut" away from being Brie Larson's stunt double. Or Tim Burton's next villain. Feel free to choose your own adventure today.
This girl is ridiculously cute. I want to hold her hand. I want to smell her hair. I want a 3x5 inch cut-out of the computer chair fabric that was blessed with her vaginal discharge. Until then, this gem will have to do.
Breaking traditional workout regimes, NASA-sponsored ejaculations and Skynet inching ever closer to harvesting our organs through the channel of A.I. powered sex transformers. If the next 8 minutes doesn't shine a more positive light on your life, nothing will. I'm here to help.
The soundtrack was so bangin, I had to fulfill your request(s). Wanna know what's not though? Whatever the fuck must have happened to this girl earlier in life to make her like this. Probably haven't seen that kind of wreckage since the great crave crate challenge of '97.
Today's visuals couldn't get better if you slammed an Ambien cocktail and hit the boardwalk wearing nothing but a smile and Walmart's finest body spray. Speaking of New Jersey, not even [-carl-] himself would be caught $7 dollars deep in whatever spawned in the last clip.
You know at one point in time her dirt tulip at full pucker was still smaller than the cock of an Eskimo in January. I want to know where that footage is. And more importantly, the followup video of John McAfee announcing her as his running mate for 2020?
"Fuck me in the ass based god", reluctantly said the state puff marshmallow woman, as he thrusted his black penis deeper into her gooey marsh-mallowy hole.
The reality of having less musical talent than an asthmatic hedgehog must have hit her like a sac of 90's PSA videos and she needed clout, badly. How can life get any worse you ask? Well... I'll let searches for "how do you stitch a butthole" answer that.
Imagine reaching a point in your life where incest fantasies just aren't doing it for you anymore, so you unleash an even deeper mental illness and create some sort of hybrid, cabbage patch, mother-daughter serial killer, fuck dance home videos and think not hiding your identity is a good idea. This is that point.
Flattery was never my strong point... and it still isn't. Half the decisions here look like they were made by a person that smokes wet Newports, and yet everyone is chowin down like it's grandma's old fashion applesauce. Your fellow Walmartians will be hearing about this.
