Kate Ryan

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.

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.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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.

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