Kate Ryan

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

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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.

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.