Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

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 . . .

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.

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