Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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