You can pretend you don't do it. Sure. Uh huh. Me neither. I also don't ready Sassy Magazine. Or eat MSG. Or have sex dreams about Count Chocula. Riiiight.
Stop your half-hearted protests to the contrary, friends. You know this. You do this. It's the modern art form/epidemic commonly known as drunken texting.
Sadly, I've shown little restraint over the years when firing out messages half in the bag. I could include a sampling of my work here, but I recently just poked my head out of the Shame Pavilion - and the air is much nicer out here, so I figure I'll stay outside for a little while.
My friend Dione, who also has her finger on the "Send" button, er, pulse, just sent me this. Hey judgers -don't even lie and tell me you haven't sent at least 10 sordid/lame/pathetic/grammatically shocking messages that could qualify for this site. And if you haven't, well.....suffice to say, we probably aren't friends. Did I just diss myself in a roundabout way? Uh, yes. But I say....well...well....the joke's on you! Boom. Take that.
See you on your Berry screen at 3:19 a.m. later? It's a date. Awwwww yeah.

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