Kate Ryan

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

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

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 . . .

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

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

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.

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

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