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.

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

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.

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?

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

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

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

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

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

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