Kate Ryan

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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.

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.

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 . . .

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

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.

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