Kate Ryan

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 bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

Alison learned from her grandmother how a plastic smile could take you places—especially in a place like Hollywood.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

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

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

Alma couldn’t understand why her Yelp reviews were so dismal. She didn’t advertise herself as a magician. She was a hair stylist.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

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.

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