Kate Ryan

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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