Kate Ryan

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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.

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.