Kate Ryan

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

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

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

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.