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.

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

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

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

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

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

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.