Kate Ryan

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.

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

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

LAX, on the other hand, seemed like a perfect place to pick up the latest deadly virus.

He thought I was mad, but in an artistic way; I thought he was horny all the time, but in an artistic way.

Recently, it was announced that the Ocean’s Eleven remake will be ladies-only too. Could it be that we’ve embarked on an era in which women take center stage?

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.

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

Fresh orange juice, milk, thick slices of ham, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs—her husband kept it this way should this moment arrive.

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