Kate Ryan

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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.

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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