Kate Ryan

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.