Kate Ryan

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

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.

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.

For all of you crazy people that think going to Target is ever a good idea during the holiday season, this is a list on how to survive a shopping trip to Target is for you…

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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

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

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 . . .

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.