Kate Ryan

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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.

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.

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.

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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