Kate Ryan

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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.

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

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

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

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.

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.