Kate Ryan

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

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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.