Kate Ryan

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.

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 . . .

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.

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

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

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

For all of you crazy people that think going to Target is ever a good idea during the holiday season, this is a list on how to survive a shopping trip to Target is for you…

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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