Kate Ryan

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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 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.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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