Kate Ryan

We all love our dogs. However, some of us take it a little too far, convincing ourselves that our dogs are actually our children. You call your dog your “baby” one day, and the next thing you know, you’re pushing him or her down the street in an expensive stroller. How did we get here? Trust me, it’s a slippery slope. Here are 12 signs you might have a dog-child.

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

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

Light some candles and use those bath salts you've been saving for a special occasion. Masturbate for 55 minutes.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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