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.

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.