Kate Ryan

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 gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

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

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

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

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

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

At Monster High, Jimmy Werewolf gets another demerit for forgetting to shave again.

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.