Kate Ryan

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

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.

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.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

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

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.