Kate Ryan

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

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.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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.

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

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.

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