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.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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.

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

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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