Kate Ryan

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

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.

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.

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

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

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

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.