Kate Ryan

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

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

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

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.