Kate Ryan

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

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.

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

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