Kate Ryan

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

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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

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?

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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