Kate Ryan

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.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.

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

The Gap come autumn: where normcore and film noir cleverly collide.

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

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

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

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

She closed in on the open pores enlarged ten times their normal size by a high magnification pocket mirror.

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