Kate Ryan

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

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.

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.

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

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

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

Sheila applied widely and on a whim. She needed a job and she needed one fast.

His mind rode the lines, circling on an endless loop to nowhere as he attempted to go about his activities.

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

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