Kate Ryan

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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 gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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