Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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 . . .

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

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