Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

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

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

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