Kate Ryan

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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.

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

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.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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

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

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

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.