Kate Ryan

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

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.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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."

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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.