Kate Ryan

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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

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.

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.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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