Kate Ryan

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.