Kate Ryan

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

For all of you crazy people that think going to Target is ever a good idea during the holiday season, this is a list on how to survive a shopping trip to Target is for you…