Kate Ryan

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

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

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.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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