Kate Ryan

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

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

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?

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.

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

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