Kate Ryan

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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

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 knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.