Kate Ryan

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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.

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

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

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