Kate Ryan

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

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.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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

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

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

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.