Kate Ryan

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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.

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

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.