Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

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 . . .

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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