Kate Ryan

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

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

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.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.