Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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 . . .

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