I have to find a way to diplomatically inform Mexico that I just want to go drink tequila on the beach and live my best life until I get eaten by a shark. That’s a fine reason to move to a country.
As you all know, this whole Cuba trip is really just an unnecessarily elaborate suicide attempt. Should I return dead, this party is going to be a SWEET FUCKIN’ WAKE!
There wasn’t enough tequila to fall in love and there wasn’t enough room in the car to have sex. How were we even supposed to get to know each other?
Everyone said that finding a roommate on Craigslist was the best way to get murdered, but it’s harder to get someone to murder you than you’d think.