Kate Ryan

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

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

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

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

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

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

Is flagging potentially offensive material taking the PC movement too far?

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.

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

Everywhere you look these days (on Instagram), beautiful pictures abound. From teacups overflowing with succulents to smoothie bowls arranged as art. All while a lavender-haired model casually eats ice cream in front of a stupidly gorgeous Tahitian sunset. All this endless beauty has become a bit dull.