Kate Ryan

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

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

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

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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.

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.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."