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 . . .

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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