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.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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.

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

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.

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…

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.