Kate Ryan

Kate Ryan

Bio

A Revolutionelle is the woman curled up in the back of a cafe, accompanied by a good book and lots of espresso. She’s the kind of girl you want to grab a beer with. She unapologetically loves the Bachelorette and Masterpiece Classic. She’s a fiend for dark chocolate, cheeseburgers, juice cleanses, milkshakes, kale, boxed wine, and whatever the hell she feels like. She goes for long walks on the beach, takes long naps on the couch, hikes through the Sierras, skinny-dips in community pools, soaks in lavender-scented bubble baths, rides mechanical bulls, or does none of those things because she does whatever the fuck she wants. She’s a tomboy, jeans-and-tshirt-wearing, girly girl, diva, fashionista, rebel rockstar, tea-drinking diplomat, hellhound motorcycle babe, spiritually-centered yogi, bookworm, historical buff, comedian, jack of all trades, all in one day.  She’s a contradiction and that’s okay. She speaks her mind. She loves herself. She’s an all-around badass motherfucker.

Kate Ryan Articles

What I Learned From Living With Five Guys

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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The Very Frustrated Hair Stylist: Flash Fiction

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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Baby On A Train: Flash Fiction

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.

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Detention At Monster High: Flash Fiction

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

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Dormant Insecurities: Flash Fiction

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

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Some Helpful Career Advice From A Pompous Mansplainer

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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Valentine’s Day At The Corcoran State Prison: Flash Fiction

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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Bikini Server At The Oddball Cabaret: Flash Fiction

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

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Riding The Marrakesh Express: Flash Fiction

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

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A Gluten-Free Thanksgiving: Flash Fiction

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

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