Kate Ryan

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

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

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

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

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.

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

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

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.