Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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.

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

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