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.

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

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.