Kate Ryan

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

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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

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

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.