Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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 . . .

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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