Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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