Kate Ryan

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

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.

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

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

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

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

The bread had to be store-bought and white, of course, so as not to raise a red flag among my classmates. I still see rebellion in a ham sandwich.

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.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.