Kate Ryan

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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

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.

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

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