Kate Ryan

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

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.

You could take this easy, informative quiz to find out with whom you side on important legislative issues and social policies. Or you could go my route and pick your candidate based on what dinosaur they resemble.

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.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

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

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.