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 . . .

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

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.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.