Kate Ryan

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.

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