Kate Ryan

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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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

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.

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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

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