Kate Ryan

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

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.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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