Kate Ryan

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

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 . . .

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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

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.

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