Kate Ryan

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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.

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.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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