Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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 gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

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 . . .

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.