Yes, I know it seems hysterically funny that someone with handwriting as wretched as mine should be upset over a missing pen, but damn it! MY pen! It's a NICE pen! Solid brass, heavy, substantial, hexagonal, matte-black. A TOOL, not a toy! It WASN'T cheap! I've owned it for SEVERAL YEARS! It's a PART OF ME! AAUGH!
Yeah, I'm just a tad neurotic; yeah, I tend to form closer attachments to things rather than people; and, yeah, since my mother is drifting in the depths of senile dementia I was wondering if this was something more than a "senior moment."
As it turns out, after a few discontinuous hours of frantic searching I discovered my pen had been moved to a secure position beneath the bedroom bookcase by a certain furry, thieving roommate.
Cue the music: