Dating Diaries: Vol. 2 Wait, you know who?

“A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn no other way.”

-Mark Twain


It’s a matter of time. It really is.

It’s inevitable that someone is going to come at me for these tales of promiscuous online behavior.  Wouldn’t be all that surprised if “GreenEyedSusan420” was waiting for me outside my office with an expandable baton…


It’s inevitable that ladies, and maybe even some sensitive dudes will call me either malevolent or sanctimonious or both for sharing these innocuous tales.

Like those big words?  Trying to not say fuck so much.  Got this app that teaches me big words to make my vocabulary bigger.  It’s great.

Truculence means the tendency to fight.

When the boss confronted Aaron about his earlier remarks, Aaron responded with utter truculence, simply throwing a glass of water in the boss’ face and walking away,  

Or if the “love interest” of this adventure and/or her friends just so happens to stumble across this post and deducted this is about her and I, well:

People from the birthplace of the U.S. Navy responded with utter truculence, simply holding Keith (that’s me) down and tweezering every hair out of his 50% Italian body and walking away satisfied…

“So, how did you meet?”

You ever see a couple truly in the most authentic form of love respond to this question?

Don’t get me wrong, I have friends that I used to drink beer balls of Bud with that would laugh and call these moments “gay”, “pathetic”, “whipped”, and of course, “aesthetic”…

Can that be used there? This app is most certainly going to cause this “Tourettes”  like behavior.  Except, instead of spewing out vulgarities, I will be blurting out 6 syllable words that I have no goddamn clue what they mean.

Anyway, the aforementioned couple, they gaze into each others eyes, almost as if they are portals into their past. Suddenly this almost out of body like moment happens, where they hover above their younger selves when they first crossed paths.

The smile they share is the definition of love.

Unless of course they met online and you hear:

“The grocery store.”

You will notice how they don’t even look at each other prior to. They only look dead into your eyes trying to convince you, as they are also trying to convince themselves, that this is the truth.

It may not be the case for all.  But when I recall this young lady, this if the first thing I think of.

To backtrack, at this moment in time, I had just moved out of my house, and all the paperwork had been filed for the divorce.

There were a couple failed dates between the time I met the most recent lady on a site called OkCupid.

No, it’s so much worse than it sounds, and it sounds pretty fucking awful.

Folks, this quite perplexing to describe.  Not because I’m having difficulty articulating the story.  If you think that is the case, then just go.

I hurt this girl.  I hurt her. Not like beat her.  I mean, if you think that is the case, then just go.

This is the ugly part of dating.  All the other stuff is shit.  It’s a distraction. It’s part of the process that is discovery.

This is the unpredictable nature of human behavior.  This is not knowing how you will respond to the situation until you are smack dab in the eye of it.

This is expecting one thing, and not only experiencing, but feeling to your core, the antithesis of it.

“You know who?”

You really want to know why people keep coming back to online dating, even though they continue to be subjected some of the worst that humanity has to offer?


Because there is a rush. A high.  Not like sucking on a can of Reddi-Whip…But seriously, when you meet someone whose look you dig-and to tell you the truth, there is something painfully attractive about the above, kidding (not kidding)-when you meet someone who you think, “I’d like to know what they smell like”…

Well folks, it’s kind of exhilarating.

And while you’re in the middle of a divorce, it’s also quite refreshing.  Looking back, I should have had a Fresca instead.  Zero calories, delicious, and thirst quenching.  So much better than dropping $80 on dinner with some gal you wouldn’t let your dead great grandmother meet. What do you do? You go home, see that some other woman you wouldn’t introduce to your other dead great grandmother just “winked” at you.  Imagine her being perfect while you whack off into the work sock that has a hole it the toe…

This one didn’t go like that.

When you first meet someone that has an equal amount of interest, the emails are flying.  Some are a few paragraphs, and unfortunately, some are, “lol”.

Now here is the thing, have you noticed that I have this innate ability to say quite a bit in a limited amount of time? I can write a paragraph in seconds.  Imagine me now excited about meeting someone attractive that I may have the opportunity to insert myself into.

I become a goddamn stenographer shotgunning Red Bull.

And what do I get back?


She can’t even capitalize the l. Which clearly would indicate a good laugh.  A loud laugh.  An actual fucking laugh.

She may even be jovial.

And no, there isn’t a chance as to what I wrote wasn’t funny. Hence the lower case l.  I’m really friggen funny.  You know it, I know it, and you can be sure as shit “lol” knows it too!

Nonetheless, there were a significant amount of emails.  There is no set amount of emails a couple must exceed to exchange phone numbers, but we got to that point rather quickly.

Reason being…She knew someone…

cute me and mom

For those that don’t know who that pulchritudinous lady is or the cute as fuck boy laying one on her…please just go.

And for those of you that may have noticed…yes, for every time I say fuck, I will use a grandiose word.

Next will be goddamn, just no fucking, unequivocal way is that happening today though.

So anyway, ya, she knew my ma. Which assured that this was going to end quite well…

Please Leave

If you’ve been following along with me, or am new to this, you know I retired from drinking and drugging some time ago.  Since then, I’ve had many of a night with a lady that has had anywhere from a glass of wine to being completely muckled after killing a box of Blush flavored Franzia.

Don’t judge me.

This lass had a tolerance though. I’m not saying this led to what you can imagine it led to, but it undoubtedly assisted.  The main culprit though, my insatiable thirst for feeling desired.  If you’ve been on the receiving end of a divorce, your empathy is infinite.

Nonetheless, that wasn’t an excuse.

For you see, afterward, even with the only light being the twilight coming from the bedroom window, you could see my mind was gone.  For you see, I do not possess a “poker face”.

poker face

I’ve only been married once.  So, to assume this is true for all would simply be conjecture and/or speculation; however, I’m going to throw the spaghetti against the wall and see if it sticks, sex with your husband or wife has to be pretty fucking good to marry them.


So, with that being said, the first person you enter other than your estranged wife, especially if you are the aforementioned recipient of divorce papers, doesn’t stand a goddamn chance.

And I was shortly told to:

“Please leave”.

The day and days that followed were a tipping point.  Within only a few short months, my psyche, my heart, and my soul had all been through war twice.  Both totally opposite in nature, yet the outcome was the same; I was eviscerated.

And here is the rub, the latter was worse than the former.

Yes, this was worse than my divorce.

Why? I didn’t hurt anyone in my divorce.  I was the lone casualty.  Well, I think Clover was pretty torn up too, but a can of wet food later and he’s probably good.


Whereas in the case of this latest online encounter, there were civilian casualties.

And her only mistake, her only mistake was finding me arrestingly handsome.

And if you’re reading this…

I hope you take this as the longest winded letter of apology in the history of long winds and apologies.

I have since atoned for my sins and I promise you that.

And I don’t know if you found me to be “arrestingly handsome” but…

Be alot cooler if you did

Because despite volume 1 and volume 2 being the definitions of stupidity and self-destruction…

I was about to experience first-hand the opposite end of a date with me…







Dating Diaries: Vol.1 The Therapist

And this is the moment, right here, where every single lady that I’ve had the fortune, misfortune or has had the misfortune of meeting me over the past 10 years or so are:

  1. Losing their shit wondering if I’m going to mention them (No worries, I won’t…by name)
  2. Buying a shovel and a bag of dolomite
  3. Both

Wouldn’t blame you, not at all. If I saw that someone I went on a date with posted blog after blog about their dating life; I’d be wondering how often they drag the Hudson. My guess, and this is just a guess, not very often.  Hudson

However, allow me to say this…You ever notice how imperious that is?  “Allow me to say this!”  No douche, I DON’T allow you to say that.  It’s like: “Let me ask you a question.” No, I’m not fielding questions right now. When I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Anyway, let’s pretend you’re allowing me to say this:

Ladies, don’t you worry.  One thing I’ve grasped and appreciated over my years of “trolling” dating sites.  FYI, it wasn’t called trolling in my day, back then it was called being fucking creepy.  Or being my friend Steve from Proctor. Inside joke. Back to that one thing, you’re trying to do the best you can at this game we call life. And you despise the fact you’re on these dating sites as they are a “Hail Mary” in discovering the Holy Grail that is called eternal love. Searching for the unicorn that makes you smile while thinking about how much you miss them. The person, that when they look at you in a certain way, you stop breathing.

For you see, while I’m on more sites and/or apps than I care to mention. I currently reside in an area where my friends are limited. I don’t drink so the bar scene is eliminated. Lastly, dating is something that I have never excelled at.  Whether it be a lack of confidence and/or a lack of understanding; relationships and I view each other as necessary evils. We don’t care for each other very much. But, we know we must co-exist on some level. Even though I view them, relationships, as soul-sucking creatures straight out of Mortal Kombat.

Whereas many of the ladies that I’ve come across are essentially out of options.  How is a mother of one, two, or three, with a full-time job supposed to meet someone?  The grocery store? Because a child having a meltdown in the produce section of Hannaford is the flame to the moth that is an eligible, and more so, attractive individual? So, what do they do? They subject themselves to the meat market that is online dating.  That’s something that those who have never experienced this world will never understand: Dating websites provide nothing more than the online shopping experience for human beings.  It’s almost, not the equivalent, but has the feel of modern-day slave trading without the deplorable world of slavery. Instead, this aforementioned hardworking, exhausted, and rapidly losing hope single mom is receiving photos of mens genitalia, threats, actual threats,  because they didn’t respond to the 37 emails from some dude whose username is the same as the one he uses for World of Warcraft, and inquiries about a night of “Netflix and Chillin.” AKA: Sex. It’s a line the kids these days use to proposition a night of sex on Tinder;  for those of you that use or used to use the archaic methods to meet someone such as a friend setting you up or actually approaching someone you found attractive at the gym.

Like that happens anymore.

fat dude at gym

But that’s not all of them.

Some ladies, not so much.  There are some ladies who simply suck at life.  And I’ll be sure as shit to write about them.  However, the mass majority of you are safe…For now.



No, I wasn’t going to one.  Actually, yes, yes I was.  However, my very first date, after what I thought was my last first date 5 years prior, was a shrink.  I’ll let you guess how skilled she was at asking probing, leading questions.

I’ll let you guess how skilled she was at asking probing, leading questions.


But, how exactly did we get there?

Raise your hand if this sounds familiar: You’re madly in love, or at least you were, you break up and the very first friggen thing you do is try to reclaim your freedom you so very coveted. How? By hoping to give it right the fuck back to the first piece of ass that blinks her eyes at you.  What’s the old adage, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new?  Back in the day, that probably was the case…  Back in the day, that was probably the case because alcohol was involved.  Your friends tell you to get over her, so they drag you to the bar. Because you know you’re going to find the love of your life at a place called Magoos.  You slam down one, two, a dozen drinks…And your reward, you roll over, your bed is warm, its cozy, the smell of passionate sex fills the air.  You snuggle up next to the new love of your life and what is waiting for you:

fat woman with tattoos

Holy Mary, Mother Of God, I’m so glad I quit drinking.

Wanna know how many days it took me to get onto after she (the ex) told me that she not only wanted a divorce but, why?

Hours.  Seriously, you could have counted the minutes from point A to mouse click point B.

I already had the profile ready to go. No shit.  Your account is permanently in the system unless you totally eradicate its existence. So, all you do is log back on and decide whether or not you want it to be “public”. Or able to be viewed in layman’s terms. And to be totally clear, I met her, the ex, on  So why not fish in the same pond that gifted me this glorious experience of failed love?

And you bet your sweet ass as I knew who was out there once I felt the tremors for this inevitable earthquake. Funny yet not, some were the same people that were on match 5 years earlier.

Why isn’t that funny?

Because it has been 3 goddamn years since that moment and here I am:

Spac Profile Pic

Anyway, I stumbled instantly upon this one gorgeous brunette. She was:

A psychologist…okay… But damn she looked delicious.

She looked either Italian or French, which for some reason I adore.

A couple years younger than me, which was nice since my soon to be ex was 5 years older.

She was shorter than me by 4 inches. Which I didn’t think was possible but was the sexiest goddamn thing ever.

This newly found, fine, female friend was totally smoke.

Does that sound like she was hot or fake? I’m trying to start a thing there.  “Dude look, smoke.” My luck the friend will think I’m offering him weed.

And I fucked it up from the moment I said, “Hi I’m Keith”

It had been days, not weeks, not months, not years…Like you could probably figure out exactly how many hours without having to use a calculator or piece of paper since it was decided for me that divorce was the only option.

And for those of you not familiar with the story of my divorce, here is a docudrama called “Good Grief” starring Nick Marshall, Nicole Webster, and Katy Albert as “Natalie”.

Anywho, I’ll give you one good, goddamn guess what the topic of conversation was on this date.

Imagine this, seriously, put yourself in this place: You’re on a date. You’ve been dating for a while and you think you’ve finally met a “contender”.  So much so, you’ve exchanged an absurd amount of emails and texts.  So much so, that you take the chance of having dinner. Which, is a very risky proposition for a first date, especially online.  Because, eating is time consuming whereas a drink, coffee, tea, or fresca can be minutes.

Well, somewhere in between ordering your meal and taking your first bite, you’re told on what you hoped would be the last first date of your life:

“Ya, I just found out a few days ago that my wife/husband was cheating on me.  We still live together, but I’m totally over her. Can you fucking believe that son of a bitch cheated on me? Let me ask you, (God I wish she said, no, no you can’t…fucking shrinks) do you think what my soon to be ex did to me was normal? No, right?  Fucking psycho, right. I mean how fucking crazy are they?  Seriously, they’re crazy, right?  I mean, I’m a catch, right? Look at me!  I’m good looking, in shape, have a good career, right? I mean, come on, who does that? How’s your sandwich?”

To her credit, she hung in there longer than I did trying to watch the Lord of the Rings.

And even when I asked if she wanted to get together again, she said. “Sure”.

The moment  I came home, you know the house that I shared with the woman that was still my wife, all I wanted, all I wanted her to know was that I was on a date!

So fuck you! Be jealous.

She couldn’t have given two shits.

I can’t remember if I…ya, I do.  I reached out to the shrink on match a few days later.  Her response:

And I’m paraphrasing here, “What are you doing?”

I should have listened. I should have had the courage to ask myself that very same question. But being the overreactive person that is Keith Hannigan, all I could think was:

“How much worse could it get?”

Much worse, so…much…worse…

While, some, many, if not all of the ladies that I wouldn’t have met if not for the world of online dating are still skeptical as to whether or not “our story” will be referenced; please stop.

Since I was first introduced to this alternative universe in which the shy are brave and the timid are sultry, I’ve had dates that have ranged from: a lady with a picture from years and 25lbs earlier, an absurdly expensive dinner while she did nothing but talk on her cell phone, a night of being “accosted” on a park bench in Troy on a Friday night with a heavy police presence only an hour after eating under cooked chicken wings and trying not to shit myself,  a night of driving an hour to knock at the door  of someones place that may or may not have been the person I was communicating with while holding a rose wondering if I was a door opening away from getting the ever living shit kicked out of me, and a day of kayaking that turned into a one night stand.  That was:

I’m not a novelist, nor am I someone that thrives off of hurting others.  These tales are nothing more than self-depreciation at it’s finest, while hopefully shedding light on the darkness that is not only dating in your late 30’s as a divorced man…

But shedding light on the world where the cowards are courageous and the meek are mighty.

Online Dating







The Art of Nothing: Long Weekends in Solitude.

Christmas Eve was, and for the most part, still is a very special occasion for my Ma’s family. Back in the day,  we would all gather at my late grandparents home located on South St. in the “Gut” of Rutland, VT.  South St. was “Little Italy”.  I remember walking down the street with a friend one day and started rattling off the last names of those who inhabited this street; every name ended with a vowel.

Every Christmas Eve, one of my Uncles, traditionally my Uncle Benny, my mom’s eldest brother, would dress like Santa.  I, being the eldest grandson, would always love seeing Santa.  Especially when Santa lectured me about screaming “Holy Shit” at pre-school one day when my Uncle Tony, the middle child, scared me when he was given the responsibility of picking me up from school.  Par for the course if you know Tony.

Well, it took some time, but finally after my grandparents passed and my mom was given the house for her and her now husband Scott. Not to be confused, which usually is the case, with my brother Scott.  Yes, screaming “Hey Scott” is always an adventure. Especially when the opposite is typically the first to respond. But after years of having the Christmas Eve party somewhere else, finally we had it again on the street of “Little Italy”.

As the night was winding down and everyone was leaving slowly to get ready for their Christmas Morning, out of nowhere, there arose such a clatter.  When I answered the door, it was my father, and I asked what’s the matter?  My father was there for a very special reason, gifts to be opened by my brother and I in front of my parents.  Now this is over a decade ago, so humor me.  But we received laptops that my father waited in line for on Black Friday.  How special this gift was, was not based on financial investments, even though it was substantial. It was more so based on the fact our parents agreed to do something.  That in it self was a monumental occasion since they parted ways a decade prior.

My brother needed a laptop as he embarked on his next semester in college. As I needed it to download porn and be introduced to online dating:

Spac Profile Pic


I’d had only been sober for a limited amount of time then, so lets just say I had a lot of free time to fill.  And even then, when my weekends were filled with…downloads and stalking, I would walk away feeling like I did “something” that weekend.

Today, I would call that a waste.  A day of doing nothing.

This weekend, a coveted 3 day Labor Day weekend, I did absolutely nothing and loved every goddamn second of it.

And no, I didn’t download any porn…Simply due to the fact there is no reason to these days…With that being said:

What is nothing?

Totally subjective, I get that. What I define as nothing may be considered as exhausting to another.   I mean, nothing for me means not leaving the house for more than 90 minutes.  Doesn’t have to be in a row, just has to be 90 minutes.

No, I don’t count the minutes, but I do acknowledge the time spent after the fact.

I mean, cleaning your place.  Okay.

Going to the gym for an hour…I mean, I guess.

Going for a hike/walk right outside of your place…Only if you talk to somebody which consists of more than wishing them a nice day and them thinking you said “happy birthday”.

(No shit, just happened.  Turns out it was her daughters birthday.  Her daughter wasn’t there.  I think she thought I was cute and was making it up to say hi to me.  But I think everyone thinks I’m cute.  So…)

Is it about human interaction? Is it about breaking our routine? I mean, we all have a routine right?  And if we do, it’s near impossible to break.

Let me give you an example that I just realized today:  I’ve been living in South Glens Falls for just over three years.  In all that time, I’ve taken the same path, Ridge St., to work in Queensbury every day.  When I was Sr. Account Executive, I would have the liberty of stopping by my place whenever I needed to. Couple that with lunch, and the drive to and from work, I would easily guess I’ve made that drive at least 500 times.

For at least the pass three months, there has been massive amounts of sewer line construction going on.  It’s been hellish.  The delays are anywhere from a 5 to 15 minutes.  They’re probably more like 2 to 5, but they feel 5 to 15 to 30 minutes long.  Nonetheless, I know good and goddamn well there is a going to be a delay, and what do I do?

I think to myself: “Hey, today you may get right through!”

And maybe, just maybe I’ve waited long enough for Cindy Crawford to come sit on my face.  I’ve been patient, I’ve earned it.

That had nothing to do with anything right there and I’m sorry you had to read it.  I could erase it, but I will simply let it sit there, for I should be ashamed.

Point being, I don’t get right through. Out of the 60 plus times I’ve driven through, I know for a fact I haven’t gotten through more than a fist of times without delay.  Fist is my clever way of saying five. Five fingers, you know?

I guess clever can be subjective, just like doing nothing!

Totally went six degrees of Kevin Bacon on that shit.

The Art of Doing Nothing

What is the art of doing anything? Is it being so masterful that it looks effortless?  Is it enjoying it so much so that your love is obvious as you perform?  Was Michael Jordan an artist? Was Tiger Woods? Is Serena Williams? I use athletes because of the cult like figures we create them to be, and I find myself of doing jack shit when I see them on TV!

“Hey what did you do this weekend Mike?”

“Well, Jason, totally watched all four rounds of the Masters with Ben.  What did you and Maggie do?

“Oh the French Open was on and we watched a 5 set, four-hour match between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal!”

Okay, a few things:

  1. Yes, all the characters involved in that little skit were named after the Seavers in “Growing Pains”.
  2. I’m really fucking impressed with my knowledge of tennis names even though I had to look up Rafael Nadal.
  3. Don’t knitpick you trolls about how the Masters and the French Open don’t take place at the same time.

Why is watching someone on TV do something considered, “doing something?”

I mean, what time of year is it? NFL Football  Sundays are GONE!  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Tinder (not really, but I’m trying to say something about Tinder in every blog I write) is going to be a big, hot, shitty, mess filled with Super Fans #12 talking like they’ve watched their favorite player grow out of infancy and they have stock invested in him.

And that is called “doing something”. And if you don’t do it, let’s say you went out of your house and spent the days outside,  you’re that dipshit at work the next day that didn’t see it.

Seriously, I think that Odell Beckham catch would have gotten more “likes” the Neil Fucking Armstrong walking on the goddamn moon!

“Oh the machine did all the work, OBJ caught that shit one handed bro!”

But why do we consider it as “doing something”?

Because we love to do it.  That’s it.  That’s the difference between doing something and nothing; it’s just loving the every living shit out of it.

Go ahead Cody and Linda Lou, watch 16 hours straight of the WWE Network while eating four bags of Sonics.  Just love the shit out of it.

Go ahead hot lesbian couple of Alex and Bobbie, go hike that mountain, take 43 pictures, brag about how nice it is to unplug and get away while uploading all of them to Facebook and Instagram. Just love the shit out of it.

Go ahead aspiring screenwriter that has a very energy consuming 9-5, sit there and watch 10 episodes of the same TV Show on Netflix while checking all of your dating apps and websites

Spac Profile Pic

Just love the shit out of it.

What’s the difference between nothing and something?

I guess loving it.

But what the fuck do I know about love? I have a plant. A goddamn plant. I’m still surprised I’ve kept the thing alive.

I do love that plant though.





The Struggle is Real: The insecure narcassism of a writer

You wake up one day, any day, the day doesn’t matter, but what matters is: First, you wake up. Thank God.   Second, you realize there is a day to be had.  Lastly, you fucking crush it.

How do you crush it?  You set the goal:  “Today I’m going to write 20 pages of original material.”  And what do you do?  You write 28.

Aside:  Do you ever hit the number key pad on your computer just to find out the it’s not  “activated” and think to yourself that you didn’t do anything to deactivate it.  All I know now is I hit the number 8 and I’m two pages up.  Another aside: I somehow just jumped to the print screen in the middle of all of this!.

Now you wake up the next day, or even two days after and realize that: First, I woke up.  Thank God. Second, there is another day to be had. Lastly, you fucking blow it.

How do you blow it?  You set the goal: “I’m going to rewrite a script you started 6 months ago.” And what do you do? Realize that the story you just wrote for the past 5 days completely deviated off the course you originally embarked on.

It would be one thing if the story were, 50,60 pages.  But in this case, double that and add 25.

What do we do? Do we sit here and go:

“FUCK!!!!” And then break our computer out of infantile over-reaction?

Thought crossed my mind…twice.

Or do we remember that we are a grown adult (insert short joke here) that has handled circumstances greater than this on a regular basis?

What we accidentally, unknowingly,  yet magnificently done is give ourselves a chance to do things over.

A beautiful aspect to human behavior is how we look at our failure, figure out what we did wrong,  and then do it again. Then, when we fail at it again, we look at our failure, figure out what we did wrong, and then do it again.

And little do you realize while you’re doing that, you’re in the midst of learning how to master it AND the nerves that are telling you to perform, they develop a white, milky substance, is, you guessed it, it’s cum.


It’s called myelin.  What is myelin?  Myelin is a mixture of proteins and fibers that form a white sheeth insulating nerve fibers which increases the speed at which the impulses are conducted.

Laymens terms:  It makes you a master of that particular skill and doesn’t go away!

There is a book called the “Talent Code: Unlocking the Secret of Skill” by Daniel Coyle.  Where they research and study why soccer players in Brazil are superior to other segments of the world.  In particular the U.S.  I added the last part. It has nothing to do with their dominance over this country.  Truthfully, I fucking hate soccer.  However, we make fun of the rest of the world for referring to a sport that you’re only allowed to use your feet as football.

Meanwhile, in our version of “football”, we make fun of the only people that kick the ball.

And we wonder how this happened:


The book also looks into certain regions of this country that produce musicians.  Why did the a segment of Italy produce these masterminds in art and invention centuries ago?

Moral of this blog is, I started writing, this particular one you are reading right now, because I was stuck.  The actual event took place last night where I was troubled by the prospect of having to totally rewrite the script I started.  Like I was going to sit down and read thinking:

“OH MY GOD! It’s beautiful!  I don’t have to touch a thing!  Just pay me $10 Million (How the fuck did my number pad get deactivated?!?), and give me my Oscar now!”

This is going to be work,  a lot of work.  Writing the rough, rough, rough draft may have been the easy part.  Cleaning this shit up, well, this is what may separate the good from the great, and the outstanding from the exceptional! I don’t know if mylen is created in the mind of a writer. What I do know is:

Writing is getting a little easier.



Tales of a Leaky Ass: An Ode to Opie

You ever notice how your day can be determined by whether or not you take a crap?  Am I the only one that thinks, “How in the hell is it possible that with all I stuffed into my body yesterday, it doesn’t say, ‘Ya, I need to get this shit out of me'”?

And only then, I start to accept the fact I’m going to suffer a 24-hour constipation, I think: “Do I need water? Maybe I need coffee? Maybe I need almonds, cashews, or beets. Ya beets.” And then after 6 hours of drinking:  3 glasses of water, 2 cups of black coffee, and eating to the point of bloating; I accept the fact:

Today’s going to really suck. (*Not as much as WordPress. So, if you notice what appears to be the exact same sentence back to back, I noticed it too.)

I accept it.

Accepting the fact you will more than likely never be a dad isn’t as easy.

I’m 39 years-old, I like my independence, and paying off debt without a family to support is already hard enough. Unless of course, I come across a young lady in her early to mid 20’s that is dying to be a mom and hopefully has “Daddy Issues”…

But, if that sounds like you, hop on Tinder and do a search radius of 12803 for 39 year-olds.

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I may never know what it feels like to watch an infant take its first steps into a childhood, then grow into a teen, then stop growing as an adult because it’s my child, and then, well, rely on them to help me take a piss because my prostate is the size of a Panera Bread Bagel.

I may never know how it feels to bear witness to a full life being lived as my son or daughter while passing along my name.

With that, I may never taste the delicious splendor of waking up 13 times in the middle of the night. What for? The gift of a diaper filled with human shit at 3am.

You know, and for those of you that don’t; my name is Keith Hannigan, I’m a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, and I say that to say this: I have woken up next to some disgusting things, people, and people like things.

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AND, I’m also a guy that defecated himself the first time he got like, drunk, like hammered drunk.

Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what’s it like to wake up to a pillow of poo in your pants? Do you?

I do.

But to wake up every night, to a screaming, not crying, screaming child, only to see how big and disgusting of a dump they took…

And that’s just the start!  Because this is followed by:

The “terrible two’s”, to back to school shopping,  to your kid has a friend that you hoped wouldn’t become friends because you know and despise their parents, to pre-teen, to teens, to teenage sex, to college kid, to a fat, alcoholic, college kid that experimented with her roommate Alex, and Alex is a her, to living back at home because they got hit with so much student debt and I’m sure as shit not paying for because I’m still paying for my own goddamn student debt, to never leaving home, to finally leaving home and missing them, to having to pay for a wedding…

You notice how this paragraph is bigger, much bigger than its predecessor?

I may never get to experience any of that.

Instead, well, instead I had Opie.

Funny thing about Opie, he was a gift to my brother that I tried to steal the affection of.

Kind of like an afterschool special where a brother tries to steal his brothers’ girlfriend.

Well, instead I tried to steal my brothers’ dachshund, and I did that by getting stoned and feeding him ice cream.

I would make two ice cream cones every night.  One for me, one for Opie.  We would sit on our bed watching the West Wing for the 53rd time. All the while, holding my arm out as we both licked away.  I with my cone, he with his.

Ever hear a dog with an ice cream headache?  It’s sad yet hysterical.  He licks non-stop while whining.  You want to stop him, but good luck.

We lost Opie this past July 20th.  He just turned 15.  And it’s taken me to August 31st to finally be comfortable enough to write this.

For you see, I would sob, uncontrollably sob as I wrote. What I wrote could have had been addressed “Dear Diary.”

That’s not telling a story paying homage, that’s mourning. Instead, let me tell the tale of one of the greatest loves of my life.

The Mt. Rushmore of loves, if you will.  Right in between Deana and Hulk Hogan.

The Arrival

If you did the math, you would have figured out that Opie came here 15 years ago.  If not, you’re a moron and stop reading.

If you know me, or can do 2nd-grade math, you would know I was 15 years younger than I am now.  I’m a freshly blossomed 39, so that would have made me 24 back then.

If you know me,  you would realize that I really sucked at life back then.  I would have these whiffs of something special, and then I would instantly block up my nostrils making sure to lose the scent.


My brother was only 16 at the time and he was doing much better than I at his age.   At 16, he was playing sports and studying. At 16 I was going to Grateful Dead and Phish concerts.

But hey, I can say I know what a port-o-potty looks and more importantly smells like at a concert with 100,000 plus hippies, bikers, and god knows any other human that loved drugs on a hot June night. Can he?

Nonetheless, you can see why one of us got a dog at 16 and the other one didn’t.

Opie came from a litter named after, you guessed it, the Andy Griffith Show.  And because Opie was the cute kid, Opie got named… well, fucking Mitch.

I hate how I write sometimes and I get so goddamn redundant.  And vulgar. Congratulations for reading this, these are the moments where I think:

“You know, I could pull off bipolar.”

Point being, Opie was that damn cute.  Don’t believe me? Thinking to yourself that:

“My Precious was gorgeous. So ,kiss my ass Keith Hannigan. I’m going to tell my friends on that you suck!”

Well, eat this SexySparrow420!

Standing Opie


This just got difficult.

Opie.  It wasn’t until he was 5 or 6 when I was immersed in his presence.  If you were to Google that line, immersed in his presence, I’m sure you would find those speaking about how omnipresent God is in their lives.

How God changed their life.

Is it fair to say Opie changed my life?

You bet your sweet ass he did.

Remember the sucking at life Keith I described earlier? Well, he morphed into chubby, panic and/or anxiety attack having, moved back home, defaulted on 5 years worth of student loans while only having an Associates, sober, Keith.

In all of those adjectives, I used to describe the latter incarnation of myself, nothing about what I was addicted to at the time.  That’s impossible for me. For you see, it’s been that way, since, well, conception.

Seriously. I guarantee I was addicted to something in the womb.

Betcha mom was sucking down the Winstons back then.

Well, it started with toys, Transformers especially, then “Pro” wrestling, then baseball cards, then drugs, then Phish tapes, then booze, then drugs and booze, then drugs, booze, and women, then women…And that leads me to Opie.

I could probably make a case that I became very, very ill during each of these addicted “stages”. And the last one, the women, well, I will just ask this: Do you know how it feels to wake up in the middle of the night with your pecker burning while covered in scabs?

No worries, I got you; It’s not very fucking pleasant.

So, when I moved back home, shamefully moved back home, I found my new addiction:Adorable Opie

If you were my Facebook friend back then, you can attest to seeing a plethora of pics of him. That, or you are no longer my Facebook friend because you can attest to seeing a plethora of pics of him.

I  fell in love the moment I first woke up next to him. Lift up the blanket, he’d pop his little head up and look at you:

“Come on, lets get up”

He would jump down from the bed,  and I would be given the amazing gift of watching him hop down stairs.

What a glorious way to start your day.

Fill up his dish, he would crush it in seconds. Let him out, sometimes with his smokers jacket in case it was raining.  Listen for a lone bark, let him in. And then be given glorious joy by watching his little ass hop up stairs.

That was my morning for about a year.

At night, I would come home, “listen to some Phish”, and then, well, we had our ice cream…

He got pissed though.  While home, I got introduced to the “Atkins Diet”. (Not a fan) However,  lost 50lbs.

So, we had to switch things from ice cream to cheese. When I say he got pissed, he didn’t,  he loved cheese.

Then I transferred to NY.

The Departure

When I left, my best friend and his wife put on a roast for me.  Dean Martin Roast, not like, you know, roast beef. I could have said pot roast, but some unoriginal douche would have said, “I bet it was a “pot” roast.”

Nonetheless, there was a dinner party, it was great.  I didn’t know that I needed to prepare something.  But, well, next time.

I actually went to a couple of Phish concerts with a dear friend, just to learn that having lawn seats at a Phish show when you’re 30 and sober sucks.  I even found a nice place in Saratoga Springs so I could stalk this girl I was obsessed with.

Yes, I relapsed. On women, not booze or blow.  12 years sober, from booze and blow, if you know what I mean.


The day I was packing to leave, Opie, well, Opie sat on what was our bed during our time living together.

And then he proceeded to piss on it while looking me dead in the eyes.

I crumbled to my knees and the tears flowed while our noses were two centimeters apart.  Very god-awful, romance movie esque.

Then he did something he never did before.

He licked my face uncontrollably for minutes.  Maybe my tears tasted like bacon and cheese from that shitty diet. But he knew what was going on.  Hence the pissing of the bed.

I would move out to NY, line up dates like I was setting meetings for work, then have flings, then more flings, then a marriage, then a divorce, then more flings, to currently weighing the option of celibacy as a legitimate candidate.

And during all of this, I would go home either rarely, primarily due to said failed marriage; or very often after the marriage was euthanized. Every time I did, a stupid smile would come across my face.  I knew he was going to be there.

On July 16th, 2017, he wasn’t eating. He just wasn’t eating. By this time, his hearing was pretty much gone, his paw was shaking like he had Parkinson’s,  and this is on top of his already paint peeling breath, and faucet leaking ass…Which we will talk about again.

But he always would follow me to the fridge. I mean, he had to be moved more often than not to close the damn thing. And he’s only inches off the ground, so he’s easy to miss.

But, he just wasn’t eating.

I rolled him on his side and noticed a little “puff” on his chest. My brother confirmed about how suspicious it was, but here is the thing about Opie, he would always bounce back.  So, we were going to see where the next few days went and go from there.

Ma, told me there was a piece of veal parm in the fridge. I grabbed it cold and started eating it.  I love cold, fried things more than I like hot, fried things.  Except, cold french fries.  That should be a punishment for a child if they curse. No spanking, no soap, make them eat a plate of cold french fries without a condiment or seasoning.

Little cocksucker won’t say cunt again.

Back to the cold veal parm.  I’m not a fan of the veal as much as I am the parm, but I’ll never think of veal parm the same way again; because he came over and looked up into my eyes asking if he could have some.

I lied on the ground with him, and we had, what I didn’t know at the time, but felt in my heart could be, our last meal together.

Just like the good ol’ days.

I got the call four days later, and Ma said:

“This is the call I never wanted to make.”

The little “puff” was a tumor that was filling his lungs with blood.  The little guy was choking on air as he breathed.

Why do we love something so much only to know that their lifetime is so short lived?

Because a child will develop conditions, an attitude, and sometimes resentment.

Where as our furry friends are unconditional love.

Well, just as long as you feed them and give them a clean place to pee and poop.

I will more than likely love another pet again, as we already have two still at the house: Dixon and Jack.  I’m not going to show photos of them, not because I don’t love them, I do.  But neither of them did for me what Opie did…

Opie saved me from me.

Thank you, Opie, that was an awfully nice thing you did. I can only hope you loved me as much as I loved you.  Even when I wasn’t stoned and had an ice cream for you…or cheese…

My favorite story of Opie was the night I first introduced Alison to my family.  Opie would always come over to my, and pretty much anyone’s leg at the kitchen table, for one of three reasons:

  1. Hoping you had food.
  2. I’m a dachshund, what the hell is going on up there?
  3. Both

You would then have to pick him up and sit him on your thigh.  Fast forward to Alison and I heading back to Selkirk. Don’t know where Selkirk is? Good for you, leave it that way.   Just know it’s a really long fucking drive from Rutland, VT.   Anyway,  what is one thing many of us do when we first get in our car after leaving an uncomfortable environment? We let out a fart that sounds like an Air Raid horn in Tel Aviv.  But, no such sound came out from either one of us.  Which is only because I was at my Ma’s and I have no shame while there.  No matter who I’m introducing to the family.

Remember ladies,

Athletic_Hippie on

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And Alison, surprisingly, and if you just so happen to be reading this, you know damn well I’m not lying, she didn’t blast ass either.  Nonetheless, the car smelled like shit.  Like someone put a diaper loaded with the aforementioned port-o-potty from said Dead concert in there.  I don’t know how long the accusations flew in my Nissan Altima but, shortly after, I realized what had happened only moments before.

Opie sat on my lap.

I may never know what it feels like to be a dad.

But, I do know how it feels to love something, someone, more than you ever thought you ever could. Especially when the decade prior, the only thing you loved could only be drank or snorted.

To those that say “Jesus, it’s just a dog”, I’m sorry you feel that way…


You just don’t get it.