Kate Ryan

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

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

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.

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

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

She couldn’t imagine the water she sat in, the water that enveloped her body, wanted to be here.

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

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.

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.

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 . . .