Yesterday I woke up uncharacteristically late and then spent a lot of time laying around and eating frosted mini wheats. Eventually, I'd had enough, and I insisted that we get out of the apartment and do something. I even offered to drive.

So there we were, walking down the hill towards my car, the sun was shining, the smell of urine was in the air. Life was glorious. But my car wasn't there. A little further, I thought. No. Greg insisted we must have parked it elsewhere, but that was bullshit. Pyung had been with me the last time I drove it, and both of us aren't stupid.

There were two options, then. Either it was stolen or it had been towed. If it was stolen, that was fine--was insured, not the end of the world. Might even have been lucky, preferable. If it was towed, well that would suck.

Finally, a red mustang drove up and the dudes, noticing our perplexed faces, were like, are you looking for a little red car? Like I'd lost my puppy or something. Yes, yes we are. We saw them tow it a few hours ago, the cops were out here and everything.

At this point, I wasn't worried. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was all a huge misunderstanding. The street was free-for-all, and I was 99 percent sure that I hadn't parked on a red curb or in front of a fire hydrant or another driveway. Pyung concurred. I had done no wrong. Then why did they tow me?

Then it hit me. Or I had hit it--or someone, rather. I must have accidentally run over someone and not noticed and then they got my plates and tracked my car down and were just waiting for me to come claim it so they could book me. Either that or Noah, dude I'd bought the car from, was a drug dealer and some drug dogs had found some narcotics in the trunk. Or, dear god, even worse, illegal immigrants.

I was hung up on the hit and run scenario. I came back and called the LAPD and inquired about my car. I gave the plates and was put on hold forever. I was scared they were tracing my call so they could come book me for impaling a bmw or whatever it was I--or Noah--did. Eventually, policeman came back on the phone. Turns out car had not been registered for six months. Stupid, stupid Noah. I hate you. A plague on your house.

We went to the police station to try to get a release form but the "detectives" were out and pretty frontdesk officer said there was nothing he could do. So I have to go back Monday and try to get this all straightened out and tell them that my registration papers are being processed, blahblah. In the meantime, car is at Hollywood Tow, and I am paying like, I don't know, $100 a day for parking.