Kate Ryan

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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

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