Kate Ryan

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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.

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

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.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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