Kate Ryan

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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 . . .

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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

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

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.

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.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.