Kate Ryan

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

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

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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 . . .

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