Kate Ryan

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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.