Kate Ryan

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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

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

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.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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.

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.

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.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.