Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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 . . .

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

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.