Kate Ryan

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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.

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

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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

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

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.