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 . . .

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

There are some hipster things that hipsters want us to love, so we’ll join their cult. But we’re done falling for these things because we’re all unique individuals. Here are 10 things you need to avoid right now if you don’t want to be a hipster.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

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

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.