Kate Ryan

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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