Kate Ryan

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

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

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

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

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

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

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

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

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