Kate Ryan

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

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

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.