Kate Ryan

“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.

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 . . .

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.