Kate Ryan

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

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.

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.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.