Kate Ryan

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

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

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

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.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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