Kate Ryan

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

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

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

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.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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.