Kate Ryan

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 . . .

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

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