Happy 18th uterine liberation anniversary, you magnificent bastard, wherever you may be. :')
happy 18th you great big stud
(https://thebackalleys.com/forum/proxy.php?request=http%3A%2F%2Fc1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com%2Fimages02%2F18%2Fl_74e41f4eb2d148bea14e54b086ff632c.jpg&hash=fc8fcf7d870356413b757b93457538d807cdeda3)
he's joining the marines because stacy felasco made him suicidal rip
Aw you guys. Very sweet of you
waht the fuck idiot
what are you
Stacy had my soul
This thread is gay. its one of those threads i never click because i know it wont be interesting. and i was right, it's not.
billy do you need a mop because you're owning us all over the floor
CHAPTER XXVIII
Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment—not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are—none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.
i fucked that man so HARDD
jk this thread is pretty good
happy birthday