Where the hell are my keys?

Three minutes after getting home from the airport, I realized I couldn't find my keys. We were in the apartment already, since Devon had opened the door, but I launched the epic hunt for my apartment keys, which I couldn't remember taking out of my bag. I spend  more time looking for shit than just about anything else. It's an Olympic event for me. During the hunt, I cleaned my desk, which was covered in crumbs, and found our long-lost paring knife. I found it in a baking cookbook. At some point, I must have used it as a bookmark. Because I do things like that. This knife had been missing for three months.

I turned the apartment upside down, but I still haven't found my keys.

When I start doing this shit at 60, people are going to think it's Alzheimer's. If I'm still friends with you guys in 30 years, promise me you'll remember I'm just retarded, not demented.