Kate Ryan

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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 . . .

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.

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.

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

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

For all of you crazy people that think going to Target is ever a good idea during the holiday season, this is a list on how to survive a shopping trip to Target is for you…

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