Kate Ryan

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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

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.

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

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

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