Kate Ryan

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .