Kate Ryan

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

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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.

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

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 . . .

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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.

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

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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