Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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.

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

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

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.