Kate Ryan

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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.

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

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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