Kate Ryan

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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