Kate Ryan

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Okay, so maybe she didn’t really understand feminism.