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.

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

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

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.

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

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