Backseat, windows up, that is the real way i want to.
Once I kissed twelfth grade goodbye, I was thinking my times of car intercourse had been finally behind me personally. I decided to have the ability to bring a fan back into my “cool” university dorm space, full of dreamcatchers and unframed posters of Bob Marley. I figured I’d have a sick studio in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and it would surely suffice after I graduated. Not any longer would my 6’4” Gumby-like framework need certainly to fold along the backseats of my mother’s Prius to awkwardly enter my gf while one leg dangled within the passenger’s chair.
I became young, silly, and oh-so-very incorrect. Read More