Kate Ryan

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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.

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