Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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