Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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 . . .

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

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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

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