Kate Ryan

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

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

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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

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

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.

For all of you crazy people that think going to Target is ever a good idea during the holiday season, this is a list on how to survive a shopping trip to Target is for you…