Kate Ryan

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

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 . . .

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.

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.