Kate Ryan

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

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

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

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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