Kate Ryan

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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