Knee High Friday: Three-for-one knee highs, crazy people, tiredness

I went and visited my stuff in Studio City today, where I have lovingly abandoned it in a Public Storage unit. Beforehand I stopped at a nearby bagel shop, where two highly dysfunctional individuals also decided to stop by this morning.

This girl came in first, and I immediately thought something was wrong with her because she appeared to have no control over the volume of her voice nor any awareness of said volume. She was whining about the everything bagel and bending over to inspect the everything bagel bin in a manner that gave me an up-close-and-personal view of the lacy panties halfway out of her bedazzled BeBe jeans. I could have done without it.

Then the guy came in and saw her bent over, ass in my face, laughed at her and told her to stop. She gave me a vague sorry, which bolstered my confidence she was not drunk and/or nuts. They had some difficulties ordering, which I tried to ignore until her boyfriend jokingly stepped on her boots. Now this was not a large establishment by any means and when he stepped on her shoes, she screamed at him like he was perhaps a football field away. And like she was in the privacy of her own home, not in a space the size of a living room with eight strangers.

And the shoes in question: baby blue Uggs. Really.

Now despite the fact that these two were a little loose, no one saw the spectacle that ensued coming. She began screaming, MOTHERF*CKER THESE SHOES WERE THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS THESE COST MORE THAN YOUR LIFE I'LL F*CKING KILL YOU. Variations of this message continued to blare on for a few minutes. I blatantly stared at her trying to figure out if she was on drugs. And if so, what the possible substance could be. But she appeared sober and just dead serious about her Uggs. It was like I was living in 2002. That's the valley for ya.

And three hundred dollars? Ha.

So she continued to order but her boyfriend exited the bagel shop, which I figured meant he didn't want to continue causing a scene in public. Baby blue uggs knew better though. She started muttering about how that motherf*cker better not leave and sure enough, thirty seconds later she was sprinting across the parking lot screaming at him. The six odd patrons (including myself) all audibly snickered and moved to the windows to watch. One woman was leaving and turned around to report, "He did drive off." (beat) "In his Camry." We were all enjoying their delusions of fabulousness. No offense to regular Camry owners.

I hope she had to chase him all the way to Burbank. I also highly doubt that is the first time or the last time they will play out that scene.

Anyway, back to the stuff I was there to visit, I spent only fifteen minutes in the storage unit digging and sorting, and when I came out, I swear my eyes were itching and beginning to get red. Is it possible that the toxic mold spores have spored all over my belongings and contaminated them? I'd rather not contemplate that right now.

Because I'm tired. So tired. I stopped at the market in Laurel Canyon and got myself a rare latte in the hopes of rallying my adrenals, but no luck. I try not to leave Leah's living room. I try to consume as much television as possible.

So here are three screengrabs of my life this week, otherwise known as Adventures in Quality Programming:

The Real Housewives of Atlanta

Paris Hilton's My New BFF

Flight of the Navigator

While I have to somehow snap out of it, I'd prefer not to move till the Pick Up Artist finale party Sunday night.

Oh, and happy birthday to Ex! The mixed CD I made you was one of the few things that energized me this week. That and getting to see Bolt in 3D at El Capitan Theater with my most favorite Pick Up Artist. I am not too tired to be grateful for the people in my life.