Kate Ryan

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.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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

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

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

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

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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.

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

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.