Kate Ryan

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 . . .

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

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

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

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

We’ve all been there. Your boyfriend has a raging boner, but you’re just not in the mood to do anything with it. But how do you tell him to tone that boner down and quick? No need to worry. Here are ten simple, foolproof ways to kill that boner in ten seconds—or less—while keeping your man’s ego rock-hard.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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