Kate Ryan

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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.

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 . . .

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

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

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

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.

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.