Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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

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 couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.