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.

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

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

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

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 . . .

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

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.

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

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

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