Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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