Kate Ryan

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.

12:48 AM. Why would someone schedule an exorcism for the middle of a weeknight?

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.

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.

Hollywood continues to flounder in a dick-sucking frenzy of self-congratulatory white male directors, writers, and producers.

I have no choice but to start all over again, tomorrow or not at all.

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.

“Don’t you smash that cake in my face, or I’ll never forgive you,” she said, and she never did, not really.

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

The case of beer I brought, as my mother explained, is “pure poison” and so I must drink it all by myself.