Kate Ryan

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.