Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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