Kate Ryan

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

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.

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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

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

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

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

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

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.