Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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?

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 . . .