Kate Ryan

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.

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?

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.

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

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

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

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