Kate Ryan

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

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

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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