Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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

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

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.