Kate Ryan

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

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.

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

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

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.

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

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