Kate Ryan

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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

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.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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.

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.

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

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

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