Kate Ryan

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

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 . . .

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

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

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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.