Kate Ryan

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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?

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.