Kate Ryan

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

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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

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

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

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

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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 . . .

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