A Maniacal Killer Has My House Keys


I lost my keys. I was down on Balboa Island Friday, my favorite place on planet earth. The last known location of the keys was in front of a super cool mint green bus that had a sign asking to hashtag it in any photos: #gusthebus1971.

One of four things happened:

  1. They fell off on the island. Doubtful. They were hooked on to my pants.
  2. They’re in the car. (But they’re not.)
  3. They’re in the house. I’ve looked everywhere, and if they were ever in here maybe they got thrown away.
  4. They got left in the door, then taken by one of the two people who left menus on the door in the early hours of Saturday. Or someone else. Even though there’s a gate which would have shielded the keys if they were still in the door, and we probably would have noticed if we went to lock the door that night.

I’ve checked Craigslist. I’ve looked in drawers and cupboards and the freezer. I’ve looked on pockets and inside shoes. The fact is, they’re gone, someone has them and I’m surprised they haven’t come in to murder me yet when I’m alone. Today we changed the locks. I’m at the point where I’m actually going to be pissed if I find them.

Written by Anne Clendening
Anne Clendening was born and raised in L.A. She's a yoga teacher, a writer and occasionally slings cocktails in a Hollywood bar. She could eat chocolate cake for every meal of the day. She has a huge fear of heights and flying. And fire. She wishes she could speak French, play her guitar better and make cannoli. She's probably listening to The Dark Side Of The Moon right now, kickin’ it with her boxer dog and her hot Australian husband ★