Kate Ryan

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.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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.