Kate Ryan

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

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

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 . . .

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.

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

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

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?