I need my keys.

 I just put them down, but where… I came in the door, I put my bag down, and I went to the bathroom. Where are the fuck are my keys? I usually hang them up on the thing. But they’re not on the thing. The thing is empty.

 “I’m hungry! I want a peanut butter sandwich! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! If you don’t listen to me, I’ll cry forever.”

 That’s an empty threat. He can’t possibly cry forever, it’s physically impossible.
 “WAAAAA!” Shit, Samara’s crying.

 “Did you hit her?”
 “No!” “Are you sure?”
 “I hit her.”
“You don’t hit her, use your words. Say sorry!”
“If your don’t listen to me, you’re not going to Trader Joe’s!”

 Where the fuck are my fucking keys?!
 Maybe they’re in the garbage. Samara could have thrown them in the garbage. She does that sometimes.

Nope, they’re not in the garbage. Wow, the garbage smells bad.

“Remember what I said?”
“Yes!” “So why are you doing that?”
“Because I’m trying to read a story!”

 I really have to leave. I’m still in my pajama pants.

“Why is she crying again?”
“I don’t know. Here Samara!”
 “Don’t give her that! She could swallow it!”

Where are my keys? Where’s my brain. I smell bad. Do I have time to shower? I’m so tired. Maybe I shouldn’t go. No, no, no, I have to go. It’s not like I’m going to sleep or anything crazy like that.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay…”
“Can you please stop doing that? I can’t focus when you do that.”
“But it’s in the story. The pigs say okay, okay okay…”

My brain hurts. My keys are probably in the refrigerator. I’m in the refrigerator, my brain is in the refrigerator.

“I’m gonna read a book, everybody hides in a new piece of the bow tie. And then…hide them before. No don’t touch that. Big, big house! Everywhere they went… I will count to ten.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Well at least they’re having fun. My keys aren’t having fun. Focus. Focus on what? Where am I going? What am I doing? Who am I? What am I wearing? How did I get here? I’m leaving.

 Nope, I can’t leave because I’m not dressed and my keys are missing. …