Kate Ryan

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.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

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.

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

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

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