Kate Ryan

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

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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.