Kate Ryan

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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

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.

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

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.

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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 . . .