Kate Ryan

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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.

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

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

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.

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 . . .

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

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