Kate Ryan

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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