Kate Ryan

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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

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

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.

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.