Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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

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.

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 . . .

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

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