Kate Ryan

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

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

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.

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

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.

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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.

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