Kate Ryan

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.

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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.