Kate Ryan

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.