Kate Ryan

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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

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

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

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

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.

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

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