Kate Ryan

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

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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