Kate Ryan

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 . . .

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

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.

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

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

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.

As an Uber driver, I have the privilege of talking to and eavesdropping on a sampling of L.A.’s finest, ranging from the clinically insane to the simply self-absorbed. As a writer, there is no end to the amount of inspiration my passengers provide.

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

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