Kate Ryan

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.

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

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.

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