Kate Ryan

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

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.

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

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

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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.