Kate Ryan

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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