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.

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.

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.

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

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

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

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