The Rosary: A Story of Lust and Celibacy… Part One

Analytics are a fickle little bitch.  I work within a world that is rapidly being inundated with them, all the while having none of substance to provide.  However, when you have a WordPress account, (my unfortunate blog platform of choice; they’ve gotten better though.) you have access to a portal which displays all this exciting (not at all) data.  For example: If you read this blog through Facebook, I would know it. Just a number, no name.  I bore you with all of that to bore you with this; for the past couple months, someone keeps searching my home page.  On an almost daily basis,  someone is going to my “library” and seeing if I’ve uploaded anything…

Yes, this is the one about you. (more of a composite character…For those that don’t know what a composite character is, or choose not to simply Google the fucking term; it’s two or more that are made into one. Think Donald Sutherland in JFK.  Actually, this is really about one, while a bit about another, while mentioning a couple, so like 5 characters, including me…I think…There is nothing composite about this, not at all…) 

Oh and if you’re just being introduced to me and my writing “style”; I swear, like, a lot.  And I misuse parenthesis,

(Like, all the fucking time.)

“Who’s walking down Broadway?”

You can set your watch to it.  Okay, I don’t have a watch. Actually, I do have a watch, it’s not my watch per se, but…Real quick. (This won’t be quick)…

9 years ago, my father got my brother and I matching Citizen Eco watches for Christmas.  This was shocking because they were pretty damn nice! Totally unlike my father.  However, very much like my father, they had something to do with the NY Giants (Eli Manning endorses. Yes, this is my fathers mind). And very much like my father, he got me something I will never use. There was this time when I was 15, and I was a “husky” 15-year-old

Fat Keith

And he got me a tennis racket for my birthday…Cats and kittens, I literally looked at him and said,
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

Fast forward to said Christmas morning, and I never ever, ever, ever, ever wore a watch. Actually, now that I think, that’s not true. I had a gold Movado.  I got it for $20 in Tijuana.  It fell apart a week later.  I currently wear a Hamsa around my wrist.

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(Yes, the struggle between the cast of characters who comprise my personal sitcom is real.  Currently, there is a battle between Nightman Keith and Dayman Keith. Nightman Keith continues to go to the fridge in the middle of the night and suck down a bottle of maple syrup like it’s his “purpose” to totally fuck with Daytime, healthy Keith.) Where the hell was I?  Oh yeah, the watch dad got me was stolen from my car in the middle of a beverage center parking lot because I just so happened to leave my car door unlocked with my brand new watch in its case (getting a link removed) in my car…
Years later, I took my brothers because that’s what brothers do (I have no goddamn clue what brothers do), which has since been replaced by the aforementioned Hamsa (Namaste).

BUT, if I did wear that watch…

You can pretty much set your watch to it.

“So, who’s walking down Broadway this weekend?”

This is the line I hear every Friday morning from a colleague/friend. This harmless interrogation is his way of asking who is going to be my next victim, I mean blog antagonist or protagonist and maybe I’m the antagonist (that’s going to fester), I mean life I’m about to traumatize…My next goddamn online date.

Funny thing, he was actually the DJ at my wedding. (Not really that funny.)

Funny thing, I NEVER take girls “down Broadway. ”

Broadway is the beautiful, picturesque strip that runs through downtown Saratoga Springs where there is never any parking.  Where food delivery trucks just stop in the middle of the road and throw their flashers on causing a half mile traffic jam. Where god fucking forbid during the months of July and August (track season) you dare drive through this “quaint little city framed by the Adirondacks.” (I don’t know why I used quotes there. I really don’t.)

During track season, if you don’t accidentally clip with your car some drunken debutante in a hat so goddamn gargantuan that you don’t necessarily wish ill upon, just an event which will traumatize her so much she will forever associate THIS moment with THAT hat. And clutching her hand while carrying a PBR (so hip) is this douched in Creed Aventus (yes I just Googled expensive mens cologne)  and a cigar hanging from his mouth wishing it was his private school bunkmate Bradleys penis, acting as if his last name is Rockafeller (could be)  dressed in a checkered shirt and salmon shorts by POLO Ralph Lauren (Jesus Christ, I’m a description of an entree and review of “Hip to Be Square” away from being mistaken for Marcus Halberstram) prick …Yeah, if you don’t hit them with your car… You win the day.

By the way, 19 horses died there last summer.

Other than that Saratoga Springs is amazing!

Karin, Karin was the last girl I took “down Broadway”. We had a great conversation about food and I’m pretty sure I watched a male duck (a drake) try to fuck his lady of choice, a duck. Fun fact, a female duck is called…a duck. I wish I could find a GIF of Drake (the rapper, is he a rapper?) fucking a duck…Instead well, this is what you happens when you Google search a “drake fucking a duck”…I’m sorry (not one bit)

I would have broken her heart…Karin, not the duck…

Actually, I had coffee with Arielle on Broadway where we watched a homeless man get thrown out for swearing at a group of dreadlocked Skidmore students. Arielle and I would talk about…

I miss her every day and I’m pretty sure I broke her heart.

Don’t you wish there was a way you could hold onto people, the good people you come across and simply say, “the timing is just not right”?  Instead, well…

“I’ve gone celibate”, was my latest and lamest retort this past Friday when the spotlight was flashed in my eyes and the typical Friday, Broadway question was posed.

“What? Is that what you’ve given up for Lent?” He guffawed.  (I’m so fucking excited I found a way to use that word!!!)

And no I didn’t. Not guffaw, I didn’t give up sex for Lent.

But I sure as shit did now!

“Yes, yes I did! Now get me a goddamn steak!”

This is my story of voluntary celibacy…(As opposed to my late teens when, well…1998 Keith would strangle 2018 Keith…)

Oh and a story about how I came home to this…(hence the fucking title)

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It started when I told her to read my blog and a “pfft”…

-k

 

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