Kate Ryan

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.