Kate Ryan

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

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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.

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

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.