Kate Ryan

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

Someone would always cook in their tighty whities, his package at eye level for the person doing French homework at the kitchen table.

The birds abandon their posts in the pepper trees, sending tiny, oblong leaves raining to the ground.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

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.

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.

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

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.