Kate Ryan

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

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.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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

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

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.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.