Kate Ryan

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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

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