Kate Ryan

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.