Kate Ryan

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

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

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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

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.

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

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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.