Kate Ryan

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.

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

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

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?