Kate Ryan

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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

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.

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

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 . . .

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.