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.

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.

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.

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.

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

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

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