Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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

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.

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.

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