Kate Ryan

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

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.

“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.

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

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

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.