Kate Ryan

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

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 . . .

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.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.