Kate Ryan

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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

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

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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

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

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

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

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.