Kate Ryan

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 . . .

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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

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.