Kate Ryan

He died a violent death. I saw him myself, flopping between wooden blades, his head bent back strangely.

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

Eva, having stayed up the whole night preoccupied with death and time, planned to call in sick.

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

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

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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.

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