Kate Ryan

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

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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

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

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

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

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.

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 . . .

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