Kate Ryan

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.