Editor's Note: The following column was originally published in 2009.

I am a firm believer that life should be a ceaseless quest for knowledge, and the knowledge I am currently seeking is the location of my car keys. I need to find them: Nothing's worse than driving clear across town and then realizing you don't have the keys to your car.

Few things leave you feeling less intellectually triumphant and mentally agile than spending three hours looking for something you were just holding in your hand. When did I become so dismally enfeebled, so past my own "best if used by" date? I half expect the doorbell to ring, the Grim Reaper on the threshold.

Me: (gulp) Are you here for me?

Grim Reaper: No, just your brain.

I've retraced my steps so many times I've worn a path in the carpet. I'm ready to lay down my sanity and draw a chalk outline around it.

When my grandfather lost something, he always claimed that "pixies" came and took it. We always laughed with him about this excuse, though we were less amused when it happened to Grandma. The point is, that was Grandpa, a guy who, in 1980, was still upset about Roosevelt's third term. I'm younger than Grandpa ever was! (It's true: There's a picture of him when he's in third grade, and I swear he's smoking a cigar and complaining about the Democrats.)

Google may be worth more money than the entire U.S. economy, but when I ask it where I put my car keys, I get 45,500,000 results. Thanks for narrowing it down for me, Google.

"Maybe while I'm at it I'll Google senility!" I shout out loud to myself. There are 902,000 results for senility, one of which lists as a symptom shouting out loud to yourself.

I've tried all the conventional methods to finding the darn things, like asking myself, "If I were a set of car keys, where would I be hiding?" I've tried swearing very loudly so the keys will know I'm really angry and they'd better come out now, and I've gone out to the garage to see if my car will intervene on my behalf.

Now I'm contemplating more creative ideas.

1. I could burn down my home. The keys, being metal, would be among the ashes.

2. I could call in an anonymous tip to the DEA and tell them there is a large shipment of methamphetamine hidden in my house. When they come and search the place, they'll probably find my keys.

3. I can take everything I own, item by item, and throw it out the window. When I'm done, the only thing left will be my car keys.

None of these seem very satisfactory, though it might be nice if the DEA agents were to find my keys, take them out in the yard and shoot them. Or maybe they should just shoot me and put me out of my misery once and for all, because I have looked in and under and on top of everything, and I can't find my keys!

Thinking I may have accidentally tossed them in the trash, I sifted through two large bags of garbage — not exactly the most glamorous way to spend an afternoon. That made me think of the garbage disposal, whose dark, wet interior I searched by turning on the motor. Oh, I do understand that if my keys were in there, the sound I'd hear was them being ground to bits. That's what I wanted.

They aren't inside the piano, stuck on the ceiling or behind either one of my ears. The little girl down the street didn't steal them, though she's the closest thing the neighborhood's got to a pixie. They've got to be here somewhere, and if I don't find them soon they are going to be severely punished!

I decided to use a flashlight to peer under the refrigerator and spent an hour looking for the flashlight, which apparently is hiding with the keys. To check on top of the bookshelf, I needed my stepstool — now where the heck did I put that?

I still can't find my keys, so I can't leave. And you want to know what's really driving me crazy?

I don't even remember where I was going in the first place.

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at www.wbrucecameron.com. To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.