Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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