Kate Ryan

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .