Kate Ryan

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 . . .

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

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

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.