Kate Ryan

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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

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

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

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.

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