Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.