Kate Ryan

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

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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.

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

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

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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.