Kate Ryan

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

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.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

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 . . .

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