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.

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.

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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

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.

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.