Lost My Fucking Keys Again

I was spending yesterday, which I had off from work (but don't tell my parents; I told them I was working a half-day), out eating at Lowry Hill Meats, walking at the cemetery and saying hi to my departed grandmother and uncle, then getting a free cookie for National Cookie Day at Insomnia Cookies, then getting a hot chocolate (and free donut -- it's Free Donut Fridays), then consuming all of that at the storage place before I go in to my stuff to ... I don't know, either look for my taxes or read some City Pages or just move my crap around.

But I couldn't get in to my storage unit because I don't know where my keys are.  They should have been in my pocket.  I transfer them every week after I change my work pants/jeans, and I make a point of remembering.  I remember doing it last week and putting those damn keys in my new pants.  They are ... somewhere.  They have to be!

I took a quick look around my car.  I lounge in the passenger seat for lunch, so presumably they keys could have slipped out.  But I didn't find it around the floor bedding anywhere.  And I checked last week's jeans, but there was nothing in the small hip pocket, which confirmed to me I had taken it out of there.  For all I know, somehow, My Father is going to find those keys and put them on my dresser or something.  That's happened before, because I have lost them before, only to either find them or have them found.  And so I'm relying on that now, because right now, I am really, really afraid I have lost them for good.