Kate Ryan

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

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.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."