Category Archives: Online Dating

The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure, Chapter One: Commissions and Sex. Did a Life In Sales Kill my Love Life?

Authors Note: One day I made the decision to write about the past 12 years of my life in the world of sales. Then, a funny  (not funny) thing happened; I noticed it felt eerily similar to other blogs I’ve written.  Then, then I asked myself a question:

Self, do you treat women like you treat your clients? And did your progression in sales cause a regression in your relationships?

So, I decided to juxtapose my radio life with my love (or lack thereof) life. 

But first, an example of a typical morning of a single, advertising salesman. 

PRAYER

I wake having to pee.

I drink a lot of water.

Now, I’m somnolent, yet somehow the flashing light coming from my Samsung Galaxy S8 Plus magically pierces through my eyelids and finds the dark batcave I hide my anxiety.

Without thought or fail, a silent prayer is said,

“Please Sweet, Compassionate, Loving God, don’t let that yourforesaken blinking light represent a pissed off client ruining my day before it even has a chance to begin!”

What could the client possibly say to do so?

“My ad didn’t play!”

“My wrong ad played!” (This is much, much worse)

“My ad played back to back with my competition!” (Huge in a small market such as Rutland, VT or Glens Falls, NY. But excludes car dealers unless they are, let us say, two Ford dealers playing back to back.)

“My wrong ad played back to back with my competition!” (I don’t have to explain how incompetent this makes you feel even though in sales, you have little to any control to traffic. [traffic places the commercials where they play])

And my favorite:

“Give me some Great Escape, concert, rodeo, wrestling, or anything tickets or else I’m pulling my advertising!”

Authors Note: Radio stations are notorious for their ticket giveaways. “Caller # 10” shit.  Well, because of this, clients think you have an infinite supply of tickets.  Not understanding, or choosing to be ignorant of the fact that the purpose of tickets giveaways is to increase listenership. In particularly the stations Time Spent Listening [TSL]. Or, more importantly, bring customers for advertisers to solicit their goods/services to the stations airwaves…However, when unable to provide the client tickets, they have said, “You know, maybe I should give my money to, blah, blah, blah. I bet they can get me tickets!”  Because their marketing decisions are solely based on whether or not the station can get them a free pair of fucking Travis Tritt tickets?  That’s a country singer, right? By the way, this was an actual conversation a week, A WEEK, after I got him tickets to another show he wanted. When you’re in advertising sales, you not only have the standard management you answer to; you have to also answer how many ever clients you have.  Think about that. 

Stop being so melodramatic and just look at the goddamn phone, right?

 

If I look, they win.

Plus, there is this blue light emitted from our phones which, I guess, will wake me up. Like my flighty, effervescent, easily diagnosable A.D.D. mind isn’t already doing psilocybin influenced triple axels.

Nonetheless, I have to pee.

Dilemma, I don’t have a window in my bathroom.

What does that mean?

No starlight, star bright, please let me see my pee hit the toilet tonight.

And we’ve already established I refuse to subject my eyes to any light, so…

Before I conclude the previous prayer about blinking lights and temperamental clients with its highly anticipated conclusion of “Amen”…

I say another prayer…

“Please, kind-hearted, forgiving, great sense of humor God, please let next thing I hear be pee hitting water. Amen.”

I do, and my countenance looks like I’m stoned with my eyes slit and a grin representing relief.

That only lasts for a brief moment until my body reminds me what I had for dinner last night; asparagus.

My grin dissipates and yes ladies, the opening scene from “40 Year-Old-Virgin” couldn’t be more spot on.

I waddle back to my bedroom and step in something squishy.  I can only assume it’s something “Nightman Keith” decided he needed to consume at 11:37PM.

I belly flop onto my foolishly purchased off of Overstock.com white comforter. Why are white comforters the dumbest invention since Zubaz Pants?

Zubaz

One time, one time the aforementioned Nightman ate something chocolate.  Let us just say when you wake up the next morning and completely forgot about your midnight meal; there is a flash of sheer panic and you… You can figure it out.  (I thought I pooped my bed…I’m working on my writing clarity)

One of my eyes is submerged in my one time Virgin Snowman white comforter. Now, it looks like it runs “tricks” in Comstock prison for cartons of Kools.

Meanwhile, my other eye is being blinded and tortured by the interminable blinking light.

I will not give in.

I can’t.

What can I do to put my mind at rest?

“Sexytime Keith” decides to make his presence felt and proclaims,

“You know what to do…”

brown chicken brown cow

Not thinking, I go to grab my phone ready to Google “Lesbian Massage Seductions”. (Don’t judge me)

Then I quickly remember,

“That goddamn blue light!”

I become disheartened and a feeling of hopelessness sets in, until…

“Douche, you’re this up and coming screenwriter NO ONE has ever heard of. Well, other than a few guys at the office, your cynical family, and the three people who read your blog. We got this.”

My crusted eyes slam shut, and my mind does its own search. (I call it Oogle) 

“Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“First-time Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“Interracial Lesbian Massage Seductions”

Or wait…

“First-time Interracial Lesbian Massage Seductions.”

BOOM!

But calm down tiger, it’s too early in the morning and I realize with the amount of anxiety building coupled with the excitement of my imagination; I’m a belt around the neck away from being David Carradine.

I’ve “settled” on a brunette masseuse with blue eyes named Orchid and a mulatto vixen with green eyes named Jasmine.

Jasmine knocks on Orchids door.  (Pretty sure 98% of porn starts with a knock at the door. And let me say being unemployed for the past month, you do wonder; what IF someone just knocked at my door?)

fat woman with tattoos

Orchid opens the door to her extravagant mansion which also doubles as her private massage studio. (Business is good)

Both ladies are wearing skin-tight dresses and enough makeup to pose as either models or prostitutes. Archetypal for masseuses and those about to be massaged.

Jasmine tells Orchid she doesn’t know what to expect because she’s never had a massage before.

Orchid tells her she’s in for a treat because she uses a “special technique” which her clients seem to enjoy.

Jasmine tells her she comes highly recommended from the “gals at the gym”.

Fast forward to Jasmine, lying on the massage table covered only by two hand towels and lavender scented massage oil.

Orchid is massaging Jasmines legs with long, soft, sensual strokes. For some reason, unbeknownst to Jasmine, Orchid is in lingerie.  Orchids hand moves further up Jasmines’ thigh. It seductively approaches the area covered only by a thin piece of cloth…

Suddenly!

Jasmine, startled, looks back with her piercing eyes and says,

“My wrong ad played and I’m canceling my advertising.”

For the first time since I woke up, there is no blood flow to my penis.

They win.

Appropriately my phone sits next to the clock, because, as I grab it…

I just punched into work…

It’s 4:27 AM.

“Don’t get too high, don’t get too low, just keep it in neutral.”

After about 4 years into my life in sales–two in auto sales, and two in radio–a guy told me, “don’t get too high, and don’t get too low, just keep it in neutral.”

He’s never been married, no kids, and has been in sales his entire life.

Neutral doesn’t have numb as a synonym…It should.

At this point, my dating life was much more “successful” than my radio sales commissions.

However, that was about to change.

                                                                                                                                                                   

In sales, nothing is more exciting than finding the new, willing, and eager prospect.  I’m charming, witty, show no signs of the quotidian routine of pre-dawn “Lesbian Massage Seductions”. I’m willing to do anything to see them again. Hopefully to make the sale.

In dating, nothing is more exciting than meeting someone new, exquisite, and passionate lady.  I’m charming, witty, and act as if I’ve never watched porn before in my life.  I’m willing to do anything to see her again. Hopefully in the nude.

Eventually, I make the sale.

Eventually, we get naked.

Times are exciting. They call to let me know they heard their ad and they love it. I love it too.

Times are exciting, She calls to let me know she can’t stop thinking about me and she loves it. I love it too.

I tell them to not hesitate if there is anything more I can do for them, and thank them so much for bringing me into their life.

I tell her to not hesitate if there is anything I can do for or to her, and thank her for bringing me into her world.

I bring them restaurant gift certificates every month and they give me little tokens of their appreciation.

I bring her flowers every month and she gives me “little tokens” of her appreciation. (Blowjobs…Clarity)

Slowly, we only talk when we need to.

Slowly, we only text when we need to.

Eventually, all I hope for is they don’t fuck up my day.

Eventually, all I hope for is she doesn’t bring drama to fuck up my day.

Once a month, I’m obligated to give them attention by changing their commercial.

Once a month, I’m obligated to take her out to dinner.

A year in, I’m somewhat charming again because it’s time for them to sign their annual contract.  I bring them a present and tell them how much they mean to me.

A year in, I’m charming again because it’s our anniversary. I bring her a present and tell her how much she means to me.

Things are changing, my commission checks are getting bigger and bigger.

Things are changing, the times we have sex are fewer and fewer.

Occasionally, there is a disagreement about their commercial, or a campaign didn’t work.

I’m neutral, so it doesn’t bother me.

Occasionally, we get into it because she’s telling me I’ve changed and this isn’t working.

I’m numb, so I blame her.

I try to be endearing and looking out for “their best interests” by upselling them on the potential of buying an event or a specific package in search of a higher commission check.

I try to be endearing and looking out for “her best interests” talking about marriage, buying a house, or having a child in search of something to break the mundane misery that is my life.

Then, one day, they say they’re cutting back.

Then, one day, she says she’s not happy.

Panic!  I scramble to do anything to rescue this.  I bring in a manager and start offering things they never received when they were paying more. But now, now they are coveted.

Panic! I scramble to do anything to save this. I bring in a counselor and start offering things they never received when they were more loving. But now, now they are coveted.

They say yes, but they know it’s only a matter of time.

She says yes, but she knows she already made up her mind.

Predictably, the time comes and they decide they are going to pull and allocate my funds somewhere else.

Predictably, the time comes and she leaves deciding she is going to take some time for her.

The client informs me, as a parting shot, I stopped giving them as much attention as I did when they first signed.

The girlfriend informs me, as a parting shot, I stopped giving her as much attention as I did when we first met.

Little do they both know, I loathed who I’ve become.

Eventually, eventually I find a new client, but the fear of blinking cell phone light terrorizes me.

Eventually, eventually I find another girl, but the fear of an empty bed paralyzes me.

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely loved my clients, but after a while, I have so many, they only become a number.

Don’t get me wrong, I genuinely loved my girlfriends, but after a while, I took for granted everything.

Saddest part, in hindsight, which is a bitch, I realize how much I objectified both.

It didn’t use to be this way.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The compensation for living a life like this is more money than you’ve ever had in your life.

The penance is a blinking phone and an empty life.

Does having a career in sales kill my chance of having an actual, legitimate relationship?

I have no goddamn clue. I really don’t.

All I know are two things:

  1. The ratio of salespeople I met who were either never married or divorced was astonishing. I being the latter of the two. But there are people who genuinely love this life. I am not one of them.
  2. There is no goddamn way this job is going to stop me from seeing Jasmine experience her first massage from Orchid with her “special technique”.

So, what did I do?

I sat down, looked in the mirror, and sold myself on moving on…

To be continued…

-k

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

The Rosary: A Story of Lust and Celibacy. Part IV: Judgement Day

AUTHORS NOTE: Ya, I’m going to swear in this…

Ladies, I adore and worship you, but…

There is something in your DNA which makes the concept of time non-existent. I don’t know what it is, but it’s real. Maybe it has something to do with you being the creator of a human life or hormones or I don’t fucking know. All I do know is many of you, and I have quite the sample size…

Spac Profile Pic

You have no goddamn clue as to what it is and what it consists of. But here is a little disclaimer:

IT’S NOT FUCKING INFINITE!

It’s the one thing we can’t get more of. We can’t. Every second is a second LOST. We can’t ever get it back. It’s not being pessimistic, it’s not being negative, it’s not being a “glass is half empty”,

It’s being, well, fucking realistic…

And it’s the one surefire way to piss off a guy. (By the way, YES, there are plenty of guys that are equally if not worse with time. They tend to take forever in the bathroom, wear way too much hair gel, and really dig Nickleback.)

Nickleback

I say all of that to say this:

When it comes to me and time, I’m a moody little cunt.

“I need my charger Keith, I NEED IT!”

Okay, I get it, If I didn’t have my laptop charger, I’d be freaking out.

I wouldn’t have left mine behind…but that’s just me…So, we made plans on…

The Exchange

FADE IN

INT. My apartment – Bathroom – Day – Time 7:57 in the AM

Me (39) is getting ready for work with a maroon Better Homes Shedless Towel that does nothing but shed wrapped around my waste sucking on my Slim Soft toothbrush covered in Arm and Hammer whitening toothpaste.

Me: “What time?”

Her: “6:00?” She answers, yet asks…

Me: “Sure, where?”

Her: “Half way?” How someone can answer and ask at the same time blows my fucking mind, but…

Perfect! Saratoga Springs is about the halfway point, but I’ll go a little further south, because I’m such a goddamn kind-hearted soul, drop it to her, angrily make out where I’ll do some hair pulling, hopefully in her car and not mine, I’m right-handed. Go back to Toga, catch a movie (I did ask her, she said no, hence needing the charger. As for me, I’m in the middle of a script re-write, might as well do some research!).

INT. My Apartment – Night – Time: 5:26 in the PM

Her: “Hey, can we make it 6:30?”

I’m dressed in a pair of Guess Jeans that won’t allow me to have my phone in my pocket and bend over at the same time. I did some writing, it sucked.

Me: “Sure.”

Movie isn’t until 7:15. Get there, still have time for angry session, time will be less but the intensity will be much angrier.

INT. My Apartment – Night – Time: 6:03 in the PM

Her: “Hey, I’m starving, can we do 7:30?”

Me: ………………………………………………………………..

Me (Cont.): “Ya, that’s fine.”

Ladies, “fine”, ya, it means the same for us too when we say it.

INT. My Car – Night – Time: 7:11 in the PM

I’m cruising down the highway in my Honda Accord with a Kombucha and trying not to jerk the steering wheel as I’m itching my balls because of these goddamn jeans.

Bluetooth chime indicating a text.

Bluetooth Becky (What I call that saucy little minx. I love it when she tells me what to do. “Take left, NOW!” Ahhh, my skinny jeans just got tighter…just kidding, I write in the nude.):

Becky: “Hey, running late, I’ll be there around 8.”

Me: …I can’t do this anymore…

I just broke up with my bluetooth.

INT. My Car – Night – Time: 8:03 in the PM

Why when there is snow frozen to your car, it just feels colder? However, at this moment no matter how bitter it is outside, it’s not nearly as bitter as what is inside sitting in the Dunkin Donuts Parking Lot in Ballston Spa. Which sucks. Not only because of the aforementioned cold, but I have to drive through an obnoxious amount roundabouts. Like an obscene amount.

My phone rings,

Her: “Hey, I’m almost in Saratoga, where are you?”

Forgot to mention, she told me the Dunkin Donuts off of exit 12, but ya, she went to the one off of Exit 13 because her GPS told her to. If you can fucking make sense of that, then I will kiss your ring and call you king or queen because I don’t have a goddamn clue as to how that happened. All I DO know is now I have to backtrack after sitting in my cold and appearing to be colder car thanks to said frozen snow for the past 23 minutes.

EXT. Dunkin Donuts – Saratoga Springs – Night – Time: 8:11 in the PM

I pulled alongside her car as if we were having an “oh we’re so obviously performing a drug deal that it’s obviously not a drug deal” moment…

Her: “Ugh, I’m so annoyed by this…”

I was looking at her, how cute she looked in her cute hat, and even though she was…she was fun…a lot of fun…all I’m thinking is “this will be the last time I see you” and:

Kissed her on the cheek and headed off back to my place wondering if I’m going to use a sock or tissues tonight…

INT. My Car – Night – Time 8:33 in the PM

Phone rings:

Her: “You seem upset”.

I calmly (Trust me, the calmer the cuntier),

Me: “Am I annoyed, yes. I have a lot of work to get done, and now I have another night lost. So, upset? Probably. But I would definitely say I’m annoyed more than anything. ”

Pretty sure my face is “heart attack” red as I’m reciting these lines as if they have been rehearsed since sitting at an Exit 12 Dunkin Donuts parking lot.

Her: “Oh, I’m sorry you didn’t get to go to the movies.”

Me: “Ya, I’m going to get off the phone now before…Ya, I’m gonna have to talk to you later…”

There are moments when I wish Alcoholic Keith would just erupt like Kilauea! He wouldn’t have gotten off that phone. But, this guy, this guy didn’t feel like making someone cry. Namaste.

20180313_081319.jpg

A couple days later, I text:

“Good morning, so I wanted to simply say that I was too aggravated over something that had nothing to do with you. I have immense internal pressure to do what I’m doing right now and I viewed the other night as unnecessary. What you asked for me to do wasn’t a big deal and that’s so obvious a 5-year-old could point it out. This is why I stated a relationship is not healthy right now. For me or for anyone. And all that kept playing like a gif in my mind was, “this is why I don’t want a relationship.” I like you. I think that’s pretty clear. But I do think we need an extended arm and say, let’s take a breath.”

Looking back…Looking back, I realize I misspelled aggravated. (aggrevated)

Days later, I finished my script! I did a quick scrub, my brain felt like it was about to start eating itself (you remember how I referred myself as the “fuzzy blueberry”? Aren’t moldy berries the premise to every zombie anything? Infected, silently yet rapidly infects, the next thing you know you’re keeled over the toilet wondering how you feel like you have appendicitis without an appendix?).

Anywho, sent off the script and headed back to Vt. to see family and do some laundry.

While there, my phone did the one noise that causes us to all look at our phone like we’re so goddamn special:

And then again:

And again:

AND YOU KNOW WHAT IT DID? It did it a-fucking-gain!

You know what’s especially douchey about facebook message scoldings? When it comes in multiple messages, it comes with that added “Fuck you” with every send. Not like a text where it’s broken into 13 parts because if you exceed 180 characters, it somehow only has the capacity to deliver sentences.

I’m not going to recite verbatim what was written (Fucking deleted it. Trust me, I can’t look myself in the eye knowing I was, am so foolish.), however…I haven’t smoked away my memory yet…

Essentially, I was told I suck, like clinically suck, like I should go into the hospital and have myself admitted for sucking as much as I suck, like I need to then call my primary care and be prescribed an intense regime of pills to be taken with food every 6 hours for how much I suck, like I should seek out counseling where I must attend 4 nights a week, 4 hours a night, for 6 consecutive weeks in an establishment that treats people who suck, surrounded by brochures on “How to Cope with Sucking and Saving the Ones You Love”, and sit with others who have either self-admitted, or were court ordered to attend each night while we watch films about sucking, starring Meg Ryan and Andy Garcia and discuss what we’re going to do to change our lives of sucking so much?

Oh, and “I don’t want to be your friend, let alone be in any “relationship” with you.

The latter is all her, all before that is how I translated the nonsense I was forced to read.

However, how did I feel when I read this?

DO NOT ASK ME HOW I FOUND THIS VIDEO. JUST SAY THANK YOU! How great is “Stoned Eddie Vedder playing the ukulele”?

Needless to say, I deleted her as a Facebook friend and blocked her…because she didn’t want to be my friend, so as we all know, that means you get blocked, right?

I went to bed that night, on my freshly washed and fabric sofetned 400 Thread Count Sheets on my iComfort mattress (won this in the divorce settlement, WINNING!), I didn’t have to worry about my script, or worry about being someone anyone would want to date.

Life is good.

It’s a lonely, yet comforting feeling…

Monday, January 22nd, 2018 – The Day I Decided to Never Have Sex Again

I wake at 4am out of habit, and it’s okay. I was in the middle of a book, the title is of no importance, however…Please play this song for background as you read:

4:59 AM…Phone rings.

I ignore.

She texts that she wants to talk.

I text back:

“(Name) You made your point. Goodbye and I wish you nothing but the best.”

And this is where the guitar picks up and we’re off…

5:02AM phone rings

Ignore

5:03AM Text:

“I want to tell you I’m sorry Keith. Can you please pick up?”

5:04 AM Call

Ignore

5:06 AM Call

Ignore

5:08 AM Call

Ignore

5:10 AM Call

Ignore

I’m trying to read a goddamn book on my phone and this shit keeps interrupting!

5:12 AM Call

Ignore

5:14 AM Text

“Keith, I’m sorry for what I wrote to you. I was scared of being hurt and wanted to avoid that. But it doesn’t negate that you are a WONDERFUL GUY (of course she capitalized it…she didn’t) You didn’t just pop into my life for no reason. I’m not trying to pursue a relationship with you, though I’d be lucky to have that. I’d be blessed to have your friendship. I am truly sorry.”

To summarize, she just reversed her entire position from 12 hours prior.

5:15 AM Call

Ignore

Tearful voicemail.

5:16 AM Text

“I would like to talk to you and wish we could have just talked openly about it.”

Okay, ladies remember earlier when I said the thing about time? I hope you took that as a tip and not an insult. I know my delivery can cause some form of, well, confusion.

With that, another tip:

This isn’t a fucking John Hughes movie! Calling the guy, or maybe your gal (so hot) 19 times isn’t going to finally cause this penetration through their “Crazyproof Shield” and into their heart where they have this epiphany,

“My god, she loves me so much!”

No, instead it screams,

“Fucking psycho! Thank God I’m getting out now!”

So, what do I do? I go for a walk? Why? Because I’m a creature of habit. A creature of habit with a strained IT Band and iliopsoas. I can’t run. At least I couldn’t at the time.

When I return, I see this:

20180315_072054.jpg

Jesus Christ…

I’m freaking, not much, but enough. Plus, it was a pretty nice Rosary. Then I remembered, she complimented my rosary! How long was I gone on my walk?

An hour…mother of God…

I wonder what it’s like to live below me, because I pace. A lot! Especially when you’re phone was ringing hours earlier like you’re a phone bank for the fucking Jerry Lewis Telethon! Especially when the person on the other end of that phone, has somewhere within her your DNA. Especially when you have a goddamn rosary hanging from your goddamn door only hours after all of this shit!

So, it may be her…Or not.

It may be my neighbor downstairs who can’t attend mass on Sunday. So, on occassion, I drop her off things : Palms on Palm Sunday, free Calendars when they hand them out. Just every once in a while. Like twice, twice a year. Palm Sunday, and when they have calendars.

Authors Note: As you can see by my actions and words, I’m clearly your typical, practicing Catholic. Amen.

So, it may be her.

I go to work, trying to shake off this hangover. My Mondays are jammed due to sales team, and one on one meetings I have with my staff. And you bet your sweet ass I’m telling them,

“Wait til you hear this shit!”

Especially Mr. “Who’s Walking Down Broadway”.

INT. My Car – Day – Lunch Time.

I go home and as I go back to my place like I do every day, I see my aforementioned downstairs neighbor walking.

I pull up aside her and ask,

Me: “Hey, did you leave a goddamn rosary on my door?”

Sweet Neighbor:“Oh no Keith, I would let you know if I was going to do something like that. Who do you think it is?”

Me: “No one you know, just a crazy girl I met online.”

Sweet Neighbor: “Another one?”

I smirk…

She shakes her head, she has a crush on me.

Spac Profile Pic

Anyway.

I go inside my apartment, do a quick check, for well …you know…

I’m good. No bunny.

Eat lunch and go check the mail at our “island.”

While walking back, this woman, who I don’t know, but I’ve heard is batshit crazy. (We’ve got a couple here. One walks around “hooting” to herself. No shit, she will take a step “hoot”, another step “hoot”. It wasn’t her.)

And she’s kicking snow from under her car (yes she drives) to under the car parked next to her. She opens her backdoor and says something. I thought she was talking to an imaginary pet or some shit.

Truthfully, I was euphoric because I just got these wool argyle socks from Amazon in the mail. My office is freezing cold.

Lunatic Lady:“You better watch your step.”

That’s what I thought she said. Again, probably talking to Miss. Maple, her amber colored imaginary cat.

Lunatic Lady: “Ya, I’m talking to you!”

And she is staring right at me with her sunglass-covered eyes while it’s completely overcast.

Me: “Excuse me.” I quickly retort while hiding my socks scared that she may try to take them away from me.

Or, attack like the rabid cat that attacked me almost exactly 2 years to the day. No shit! And the sky was just as ominous. Making the sunglasses thing even fucking creepier.

Lunatic Lady: “You heard me! You better watch your step!”

Now, I’m ready to fuck somebody up. Especially some crazy lady (No, I haven’t asked her out…yet.) screaming at me in the fucking parking lot while kicking fucking snow!

And then…

Me: “Tell me, WHY do I need to watch my step? Execuse me, you can hear me, I know you can, why? Huh? Why? Specifically, did I do something to you? Because I don’t think I did. So, please tell me, what I did to you or why I need to watch my step? Choose, either one will do!”

I think while my tongue was deep within the “pfft” girl’s mouth, I stole some of her soul.

Needless to say, no response. I mean, come on. I’m the best fucking looking dude in the complex. You may want to be nice to me.

Or maybe she knew the girl…HOLY SHIT! Does she know fucking bunny boiler? (she never boiled my bunny…I don’t have a bunny. I have a plant:

20171003_071013.jpg

My mind can’t handle the possiblity of them having any sort of…

FUCK!!! What the fuck is happening?!?

So, just like I do whenever I cower:

Me: “Okay then, well, have a nice day!”

And she seriously got excited and returned the gesture. The inflection in her voice hit such a high octave that I was petrified of her levels of insanity.

I race back up to my place to not only call my landlord, but I was really excited about my socks!

Informed the landlord of the incident while praying for assurance I wasn’t about to have something knocking at my door at 1AM in snow-covered snows, sunglasses on, wielding a scythe, telling me:

“I told you to watch your step”.

Turns out this woman does this type of shit all the time.

Clearly I live in a gated community.

I walk outside, she’s gone, and see my downstairs neighbor who returned home from her walk.

I look at her with “wait til you hear this shit” eyes.

I inform her as to what just happened, on top of all the shit from only 7 hours earlier, including the fucking rosary on my door, and now I’m being threatened by Lizzy Borden!

Sweet Neighbor: “Keith, she (lunatic lady) told me a few weeks ago that she came out to her car, she’s crazy Keith! She came out to her car and her tire was flat. She calls AAA to come, Keith, she’s crazy! She calls them to fix it. They show up and tell her that her tire has been slashed. She tells me she knows who, Keith, you know she’s crazy right? She tells me she knows who did it. Keith, she goes to this church down the street where, Keith, they’re all crazy there! She goes to this church and she, Keith, she makes jewelry…”

Mother…

Fucker…

To Summarize

Are you one of those that found or currently finds yourself not being attracted to those attracted to you?  Me too.  I think my problem is I can’t respect anyone that would be attracted to someone like me…

Or…

I’m afraid of getting it wrong again. It’s right up there with my fear of heights and bridges.  I’m so deathly afraid of getting it wrong, I have created a phobia called:

“Douchobia”

 

I don’t know if any of what I do is right. I hope it is, I have faith that it is.

Someone asked my definition of God the other day, I said God is a brunette, green eyes, pale skin, slender yet curvaceous, and loves Jam Bands and the West Wing.

“So, you want to have sex with God?” She asked disgustedly.

“Oh, I’d love to have my face in the crotch of God.”

For me, God is Hope.  We all have faith in something, right? And we all desperately want to be right.  For some, as long as they have God, they are right.  For some it’s as long as they have their gun, and for some it’s as long as they have their weed.

My Jennifer Connelly looking Lord is so much better than bong or an AR-15…

Jennifer-Connelly-2014

God, is what we want God to be. God confirms what he hold to be right, and true.

Point being, my God is hot and fun, as long as she watches the West Wing while drinking a kombucha.

Am I trying to simply get it right?

Am I trying to simply get it right and have it “confirmed”, because I’ve already been wrong?

Am I try to simply get it right because I don’t want to get it wrong ever again?

Or am I simply waiting to get it right with my green-eyed, looks great in a pair of yoga pants while jamming to Phish, God?

I don’t know.

Lately, I’ve been really into the Late David Foster Wallace.  I’m reading a book of his called “Infinite Jest”.  Many of you may have heard of him from his notorious “This is Water”…

In it, he first tells the joke of two young fish swimming along, until they come across an older fish who asks,

“How’s the water?”

As they swim along afterward, one of the young fish looks at the other one and asks,

“What the hell is water?”

I think my dating life is water…

Years ago, my friend Chuck said I serve to the God of “Pussilitus”.

I see his point.

That’s why I decided after all of this, it was time for a much-needed respite.

However…

I realized today was Palm Sunday.  Which means only five more days of Lent…Which means come Friday, Good Friday Morning…

I’M BACK!

Spac Profile Pic

FADE OUT

-k

Folks for all of you that read all three of these:

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

The Rosary. A Story of Lust and Celibacy, Part Due. (In Italian two is “due”. Not due, like “your bill is due”. Due, like a Candadian, asking if you’re drinking a Mountain Dew. “Dew, Eh?” Due, two, Italian, learning to speak it.)

The Rosary. A story of Lust and Celibacy, Part Three

I hope you enjoyed. They were fun to write.

I’ve since decided it’s time to pursue writing as a full-time thing. So, as a favor to helping me achieve this, please like, follow, and/or share.

If you’d like to contact me directly:

kth08250@gmail.com

THANK YOU, ALL!

-k

The Rosary. A story of Lust and Celibacy, Part Three

Authors Note:  Since we had SO much success with it last time, and it didn’t totally interrupt flow while writing whatsoever;  we’re going to not “cuss” in this post too. Funny thing, actually found a site with the “101 Best Alternatives to Curse Words”. Not mentioned, you got it, dawg gone. Whatever, trying something new. Speaking of something new…

Let’s Be Friends…

One of my many, many issues with the whole online dating experience is how it eliminates any organic nature to developing a relationship.  Now, are there people who I can see living forever, together in a life of eternal struggles and bliss who met via the online dating experience? Absolutely.

We hate those people and they are only detectable by Rowdy Roddy Piper (RIP Hotrod!) wearing Ray Bans.  

However, it more than likely is a “me” thing.  (If I may, I’m willing to bet all the money in my 401k vs. all the money in your Roth IRA that if we were to hop on, let us say Match.com right now; I would recognize a solid dozen ladies who are “online now”. Because they are ALWAYS online now.  So, this “me” thing, it’s a “we” thing. Thanks for playing.)

And I’m done with it.

And if, for some reason, it is a “me” thing, then I’m going to own it the Stove Top Stuffing out of it!

Why?

Because, well, you know who I’m going to have dinner with, go for hikes with, talk about my day with , and dagnabbit, have sex with?

Spac Profile Pic

And it’s what needed to be done.

How so?

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, and I know, some of you are…well…

But, you may have noticed I enjoy writing. How much so will be revealed in the days to come.  (TEASE)

Blogging for me is an exercise. Practice if you will.  This is something to hopefully entertain a few of you while serving a purpose greater than I care to explain.  (Let me explain: writing is me uninterrupted. And if you know me, you know I don’t shut the Fraggle Rock up! So…) And I also use blogging to help strengthen my lack of grammatical skills. (Or reinforce my obvious (bad) habits.).

Screenwriting, whole different species to me. Hell, it has it’s own Kingdom Classification of torturia. And it, without question, is the single most amazing experience I have ever had.  I view sitting in a theater, watching a show, or watching a movie as an emotional investment of time.  For two hours, I give my emotions over to the storytellers (primarily writer, director, editor) and say “inspire me!”

And the first moment “Action!” was called, with a guy standing on a stool way to unsafe to sit on, while holding a boom mike hoping to not be in the shot. The first moment a gal to the side is making sure the light casts shadows in a somber, yet delicious tone. The first time a person with an eye that I will never possess focused through a viewfinder capturing the actors walking out in front of us reciting words you wrote…

…We’ve established my addictions, well…I never put myself in a position to put a needle in my arm, however…If I could, I would inject this feeling in between my toes!

I’d rather work for it…

How so?

I’ve recently hired a Screenwriting Coach, Lee Jessup (http://leejessup.com), and she’s been fantastic.  She’s also put me into contact with Andrew Hilton (http://www.screenplaymechanic.com).  Andrew is friggen awesome!  We had a discussion (email) recently where I flat out said,

“I’m not looking for a pat on the ass and an “atta boy”.  I want you to tell me I suck and why I suck!”

He does and it’s outstanding.

So, I set up a “deadline” with him for “Notes”. (Goes through, reads the script, thoroughly tells you what works, what doesn’t, and gives you a grade.)

I Scheduled one for the end of January shortly after the “pfft date”.  Now that I consciously made my decision to combat my addiction to online dating, I desperately needed to get into a routine.  (My routine consists of waking up at 4am (foreshadowing and yes, I just parenthesized within a parenthesis) because my mind first thing in the morning is like a jackrabbit with ADHD and a cocaine addiction. So, I go with it. I read for about 30-45 minutes.  After stalking all of you on Facebook and Instagram. Then, I write. I do this until my 120 pages or so are done.) Once my draft is complete, and these are typically rewrites by the way.  (One script is about 5 to 6 rewrites and the other is the 3rd)  I’ll usually do a quick read through, tell myself I’ll do another but by that point my brain is exhausted and so sick of those characters.  Email it off to Andrew  awaiting the response of “Oh my God man, this is it! Bravo!” And instead “It’s made some strides forward, but many horizontally”.

And yes I pay for this.  And yes, I love it.  (Not gonna lie, at first, kinda stings.) But no one said it was going to be easy.

In the middle of this most recent time though…My phone was blinking.

Have you ever had a Facebook friend request, then didn’t?  Because the person who sent it smartened up  and canceled it? Well, this happened to a girl I “dated” for a month and I was a complete ass (donkey) too.   She was sweet, kind, and just so happened to be the girl I was with during the “rabid cat” attack.  Which was followed by the overly emotional writing of a script that eventually became my student film.  Have I told you about “Good Grief”?

 

Needless to say, I was a little dramatic at the time.

Anyway, she was the ghost of okcupid past, and was gracing me with the chance to be kind. Plus, I owed her a much deserved apology. (When you stop being a waste of a body and mind due to drinking and drugs, you have a lot of amends to make and even more actions to make amends for. So, you become pretty good at it.  By the way, if I haven’t for some of you reading; give me a bit.) She wasn’t seeking that, she just wanted to say hi.  I’m glad she did.

We reconnected due to her heart absorbing a torpedo to the side of its hull. From the man she met after me. She was wounded, severely wounded.

Now, she’s a beautiful, sexy gal, and here is an opportunity for me to take full advantage of her freshly wounded organ and be my typical, overly flattering, charismatic, charming, con artist self.   So, of course, I said:

” You know, we were never friends. And right now, you need a friend.”

What the Fraggle Rock was that?

Have you ever had a panic attack? They’re awful.  A year after going sober, my days were full of them. It was awesome.

For those who have never had the pleasure…

You’re thinking, typically, you’re thinking about how much life sucks.  You’re sweating.  Especially your palms. (I have this thing about my palms sweating.  As a kid I used to get worried about them getting sweaty right before “Peace Be With You” at church.  No kidding. Which of course did what? Made them sweaty) You notice the impossible to not notice sweaty palms. They always sweat. “Am I freak” races through your infant like sense of self.  You have flashbacks to Ash Wednesday your 7th grade year at Christ the King. Your heart races. You notice.  It’s hard not to.  You’re having flashbacks of cocaine with a girl you met named Penny at the bar Jilly’s with a homemade tattoo of a crucifix on her middle finger.  You think you’re having a heart attack.  You’re convinced you’re having a heart attack. Which of course causes you to…

Panic. Which cause your hear to race, which cause you to…

Such a fickle little cycle isn’t it?

However, during said mental meltdown, you find yourself desensitized.  Outside of your body.

For my hallucinogenic taking friends, it’s about the 2-hour mark in a mushroom trip or hour 3 to 4 in a clean LSD experience. At this time, your dilated pupils are looking down the barrel of whether this is going to be a friggin blast, or I’m going to piss myself and curl up into a ball for the next, well, forever…

I’m not saying I was there (desensitized)  when I said that to her. But it was so, well, odd and…

And then I heard her crying.

Two things came from this moment:

  1. We became friends.  We don’t chat often, but when we do, it’s a conversation between two people that, well, are treating people like people.  Funny (funny meaning scary) how you lose this  concept while by consumed by the “lifestyle” of emotional online gambling. Matter of fact, I recently reconnected with another ghost of okcupid (I wish North Korea would bomb THAT site) and she’s, she too was and is one of those people  you thank God you were graced in meeting.  I’m not good enough for her…   And…
  2. Holy crap, it’s that easy? Say you want to be friends! That’s it? Because as we know…

 

Right now, it was hour 2 or hour 3-4 depending, and I needed to choose: A euphoric good time, or defecating myself from this eternal hell. Do I use this newfound intel for good…or for…

Then my phone chimed…

Actually…being…friends…?

This young lady and I started chatting months earlier.  I was in the middle of a “hitting streak.”   (You have a good amount of dates lined up.  Typically, when you do have this sort of “feast”, you usually walk away with a lighter bank account and a bottle of Aveeno lotion and “first-time lesbian experience” in your Google search bar. Why? Man is incapable of handling that many options.) We had a dinner planned for a Saturday night but, a few days  before she called…

“Can you be my date for this event tonight?”

This was literally minutes, like 90 before said event and it was an hour plus drive (foreshadowing) from me to her.  Plus, I just walked into my place after a workday. Plus, it was a formal event.  Plus, it was  for the “Ladies of Law” in Capital City (Albany).

So, to summarize: First date. First date that’s an hour away where I have to pull out my wrinkled Kenneth Cole suit. First date that’s an hour away where I have to pull out my wrinkled Kenneth Cole suit where there will possibly be people in tuxedos.  First date that’s an hour away where I have to pull out my wrinkled Kenneth Cole suit where there will  possibly be people in tuxedos at a ball for the “Ladies of Law”.  First date that’s an hour away where I have to pull out my wrinkled Kenneth Cole suit where there will possibly be people in tuxedos at a ball for the “Ladies of Law” and you are this Fudge Nugget:

Spac Profile Pic

“Ya, I’m good.”

A couple days later, she cancelled our date. Turns out Plan B said yes, and she, much respect, wanted to give him a “fair shot”.

Good for her!

3 months later…My phone chimes.

“Hey Keith, Happy New Year.”

Texts are exchanged, the texts turn into a phone call and she reveals the whole story about the guy who went to the event with her.  Cool. I really don’t care, but you know…I have to let them talk at some point.  (If you’ve ever been on the phone with me, you get this. Have I mentioned that I don’t shut up?) 

I inform her how I’m in the middle of a screenplay called “Gone Guy”. It’s the story of a man that goes missing when he take it upon himself to reveal online dating is actually a middle class prostitution ring………….(Okay, it’s not. The screenplay.  Online dating IS prostitution.) I also inform her that…

“Im done having my soul sucked out on a regular basis.  Meaning I’m done with dating.”

Which works because she just got out of the 3 month story with Plan B.

Then I drop…

“But, if you’re looking for a friend, I’d love to be your friend”.

“I would love that.”

catching the fish.gif

Now, did I consciously say that knowing that I would love to see her naked?

I don’t know.  But, did I consciously capitalize Fudge Nugget earlier when referring  to myself?

 

Then she asks…

“Do you want to come over and watch a movie?”

Yeah, she didn’t ask this immediately after the whole friend thing.  It was a week later.  My writing had intensified. I was a week from “deadline”, and I was beginning to get a little punchy.

“You know what? Ya, ya I do.”

Then I made the hour trek  to Albany.

Needless to say, I liked what I saw.

Needless to say, she liked what she saw.

Needless to say, we didn’t finish the movie…

Then in the middle of post-coital spooning I created my “out”.

Yes, this is how my mercurial mind works.

This is how it all played out, in my mind of course: (Favorite quote: “I’ve seen a lot of trouble in my life, and only a fraction of it actually happened”.-Mark Twain)

It doesn’t work between us.

Why?

Because I’m a chicken-poop that despises change. You know, totally unlike society who easily embraces change……………

She tells me that change is good.

I get annoyed.

She compromises.

I despise her more for caving so quickly.  I find my moment, and execute my escape plan.

“Well, hey, I said I ONLY wanted to be friends.”

Her appropriate response:

“Oh ya, I forgot that moment where I had a gun to turn your head while it was between my thighs.”

Then she kills me in a moment of passion, pleads insanity, and enters into evidence my blogs as proof to my torturous behaviors. She gets 100 hours community service calling bingo at the local old folks home and my brother gets my baseball card collection.

All that aside, what do we crave after sex? No, not food.  Even though I was hungry as all hell. I think I was, yeah, I was in the middle of this “cleanse/reset” I do once a year.

So, my late night reward when I got home was Vegetable Miso Soup and lentils.

charlie-sheen-winning

Sex.  The answer to what you want after having sex is more sex.  At least that’s how my addictive personality thinks.  For you see, I’m the guy eating dinner thinking about dessert. I was the guy doing the line of cocaine thinking about the next line of cocaine.  I was the guy having the drink thinking about the next drink.  And I’m the guy in the middle of…You see where I’m going with this.

I have this thing about being “present” that I’m dealing with.  I don’t know what that means, but I just know I’ve been told I have an issue with it.

Needless to say, the person that told me to be present is no longer present in my life.

So, the next day, all her and I did was discuss how we were going to do this again, what we were going to do to each other, and how soon we were going to do it.

Because that’s what friends do.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to finish the next 60 pages or so of my script which is due in a week. No pressure.  However, I just added quite the distraction to the equation.

The next day, we made plans for her to come to my place (Not a fan of that crap so soon, however, SEXY TIME!).  I did tell her though,  I needed to get some work done while she was at my place. Pleasant surprise, she reciprocated that sentiment.

She was in the middle of something, I don’t know. So, she was going to bring her computer. (foreshadowing)

She came over, checked out my place for about 10 minutes, noticed and appreciated this little, well, shrine to those I love where I have a blessed rosary from the Church I attend.

20180315_072009.jpg

“I like your rosary.” (foreshadowing)

Needless to say,  we got very little work done.

However, we did have about a 45 minute window where we did.

Important.

Why?

Because she left her GOSH DARN battery at my place and she lives over an hour away.

Now, I’m a man of ritual and habit. We all are.  Especially as we progress in age.  We wake up and do the exact same thing, day, after day, after day, after day.

 

And she was fudging it all up!

Well…

Little did I know I wasn’t the only “mercurial minded” one in this “friendship”.

Little did I know that “being friends” was worse than, well, not being friends.

And little did I know that Jesus was going to be hanging from my door waiting for me…

20180315_072054.jpg

-k

 

The Rosary. A Story of Lust and Celibacy, Part Due. (In Italian two is “due”. Not due, like “your bill is due”. Due, like a Candadian asking if you’re drinking a Mountain Dew. “Dew, Eh?” Due, two, Italian, learning to speak it.)

Authors Note: In an attempt to display some “range” with my writing, I’ve decided to not swear in this post.  See if you can tell where I would have used vulgarity. With that I give you:

Part Two: 

The second week of February of this year I celebrated 13 years of being clean of booze and blow.

The second week of February of this year  I celebrated 10 years of being cigarette free.

As of today, it’s officially been 3 months,  OR 12 weeks, OR 84, actually 87 days since my last online date.

Why?

I quit the drinking and blow because, after a while, you get a little tired and annoyed with pissing the bed on a regular basis. And those aren’t cheap “habits”. Couple that with continuously buying plastic sheets from Walmart, even at their low, low price of $18.97; it adds up quick.

I quit smoking because the cigarettes were causing my forefinger fingernail on my right hand to become soft and yellown or brellow (You guessed it, brown and yellow officially did it, they hooked up and the child was the aforementioned forefinger fingernail).  I’ve always enjoyed the fact I’ve possessed naturally calm cuticles. So, to ruin it with a soft, yellown or brellow fingernail would have been putting a Picasso in a frame from Walmart at the low, low, price of $37.87.

And I quit online dating because well…

The Last Surviving Site…

You ever see an ad for a site, any site, and you click on, they ask you to enter your email and the next thing you know:

“Sorry, this email already exists”.

What? When? How?

Then you remember on a Friday night, you thought the prospect of sugar-free, dairy free, gluten free, taste free, high protein, sour gummy candy was, the greatest thing since Mr. Skin.com. Then you came to your senses and realized $9.95 for 6oz. and $4.95 shipping was a little ridiculous for something that would last two handfuls worth of time.

Well, lets just say, the email thing would happen on the following:

Match.com

Plenty of Fish.com

Ok Cupid.com

Tinder

EHarmony.com

Coffee Meets Bagel (saw this one on Shark Tank)

Hot or Not.com

Zoosk.com

Fitness-singles.com,

And the piece de resistance, wait for it…

Catholic Match.com.

(No, no Farmers Only and yes, I did check out Christian Mingle until my mouth tasted like burning.) 

However, when I got back from “Date with Destiny”, (Foreshadowing) I was dating someone. Which meant my profiles were either hidden or deleted.  You actually can wash away your existence on these sites…So they say…Unfortunately, when I got back from said event, the dating someone was something…

You know, I may delve deeper into the “why” I broke things off with her someday, just not today…

Yet, there was a lone survivor…One forgotten about… Or was it?……..

Meetmindful kept popping up on my Facebook page news feed.  Meetmindful presented itself as a dating site with a “conscience”.

Aww, those poor developers had no idea what this world consists of. It was only a matter of time before a spoiled blueberry deep within the pint turned it into one fuzzy glob of penicillin. (I’m allergic to penicillin…which sucks because every time I have to list an allergy, I struggle with penicillin. Not the allergy itself, but the spelling.  The only reason I have it spelled correctly here is, you guessed it, red underscores. Thanks, Bill Gates!)

And who is that furry blueberry of death you ask? (You didn’t ask)

Spac Profile Pic

…Let’s go find some “Irie Sisters.” (hippie speak)

I’m not going to go into some long, historical diatribe about “Hippie Keith”, instead, well…

Hippie Keith

Look at those dawg gone eyebrows!

Point being, in the deep recesses of my mind I possess the vernacular needed to walk down  “Shakedown Street” and score some heady nugs.

It’s right next to those 5 years of French.  Je suis un ananas! Ananas

Well, shortly after returning from Tony Robbins (I hate “I told you so people”, and to read about My Date with Destiny… 

I get messaged by an exquisitely beautiful young lady, who, wait for it, LIVES NEAR ME!  (It’s insane how many people you meet on these sites that don’t live ANYWHERE near you! Insane I tell you!)

And we hit it off…Why? Because she mentions Tony Robbins in her profile.  In many cases, especially in moments of desperation- let’s face it, when you’re on a dating site, you’re pretty dawg gone desperate-you grasp at any straw available. (Did I use the dash  appropriately? I have no dawg gone clue.)

But, when you return from a week of, well, read the blog, and the first girl you meet, unintentionally by the way, just so happens to mention a man you spent more time with than, well, your father…Thoughts of serendipity start swimming like salmon to Capistrano through your hippie speaking/French speaking/self-help motivated mind.

This is where I may creep all of you out a bit (or a bit more)…

So, to communicate with people on MeetMindful (I should mention the questions they  ask and then post your answers on your profile consists of things like: “What gets you present? What are you passionate about? What imperfections are you embracing?… Ya, you get the point…) you are given a few day window to go on a mass assault on all the hopeful, innocent hearts within a 50-mile radius of 12803. When those days expire, way too fast I might add, you have to pay to read and send emails. Here is where it gets creepy (as if), I refuse to pay. I mean, the monthly cost is the equivalent of two sets of plastic sheets at Walmart!

HOWEVER, they (profiles) provide enough information to be, well, a dawg gone stalker!  All you need is a name (provided), their city (provided), and a picture or two; you can pretty easily find them on Facebook. Just as long as you study their pics well enough to either find it’s match or a similar one. (If I studied this hard in high school I’d be a dawg gone Astrophysicist).

When you do, and I always do,  you send an Instant Message like,

“Hey, so this is Keith, from… Ya, is this cool or is this beyond creepy?”

It usually works… it always works… they get it.  However, none of the relationships (foreshadowing) work, so, there’s that.  But how dawg gone creepy, right?

Anywho…

Instant messages turned into “friend requests”, friend requests turned into texts, texts turned into phone calls, which turned into texts the moment our phone calls were over, which turned into staring at your phone hoping it would ring, which turned into picking up your phone making sure it was working, which turned into restarting your phone because it needed a restart anyway and SURELY she’s texted me, which turned into me sending the “Hey” text with the blushing smile face emoti, which turned into…

DAWG GONE IT WHY HASN’T SHE SENT ME A DAWG GONE TEXT?

Then she does letting you know she was busy, sorry and is thinking about you…Because, you know, we haven’t met yet so the fantasy of “happy ever after” is being played like a GIF in both of our minds.

She says things you’ve been waiting to hear come from a sweet sounding voice, and you say things which floor her because you’ve been on so many dawg gone dates that you’ve gotten pretty dawg gone good at this. But, they’re true.  They’re how you truly feel and think.  So, what do you do?

“You should really read my blog.”

Good idea, right?

Here is my thought process when inviting a potential partner to read about a few of her, well, predecessors…

  1. You more than likely will read something if we hit it off, might as well be now.
  2. You more than likely will Google my name, and you may stumble across, well…This:

fat woman with tattoos

3. You more than likely will suck, so don’t suck so bad that I end up writing                                about you. You’ve been warned. And lastly,

4. I’m an over-flattering schmuck and all those compliments (You’re                                               breathtaking, you’re exquisite, you’re gorgeous…) Yeah, I use those A LOT,                               by all means, don’t feel special and/or unique. But I’m also a writer that desperately needs validation!

Well, I’ll let you figure you out (No, I won’t) which one of these “set her off”. (#4)

Needless to say, I got this text:

“So, I did some reading last night and I don’t know how I feel about you, lol”

LOL? LOL? What in the name of dawg gone heck are you dawg gone LOLing about you stupid dawg gone dawg goner?!? (I’m currently suffering from vulgarity withdrawal)

Needless to say, I called her. Pretty sure I cried, I’m fairly certain I cried, ya, I cried.  I’m good like that.  In between tears I rattled off the usual suspects:

“You’re different!”

“You’re so special!”

“I’ve never connected like this!”

“What did you think of the writing?”

Authors note: Okay, lets get something clear, I’m painting myself into this corner of  being this God-Awful soul.  I’m not. I’m just, well, honest.  So, you know, deal with it and get off your sanctimonious, pretentious cloud and realize this: It’s a scary, dark world, dating.  And sometimes, well folks, sometimes,  a man does what a man has to do to survive in this cruel, superficial world…  

Needless to say, date on!

Date Night!

I really hate paying for sushi. Especially for online dates. Why? I’ve got a great hook-up, and from time to time, I’m notorious for bringng the “uninspired” dates (skeptical at best) to said hook-up. However, she found this place in Malta, and we decided to go there. And yes, I bought flowers.  (I did that crap early on, and I learned a valuable lesson; don’t do that. However, the whole blog thing threw me off, so, here I am, flowers in tow.)

She pulled up next to me in the parking lot and, DAMN! Total smoke show.  Beautiful from head to toe to ass.  And what an ass!

I gave her the flowers, and she kissed me! This was going to be the perfect night. The LAST first date, right?

The sushi sucked. It was globs of rice, fake crab, and a ton of that orange…stuff which looks like the dawg gone “secret sauce” they put on Big Mac’s.

But, damn…she was fine, and the way she looked at me…

Oh and the ambiance, it was slightly above those Chinese “restaurants” with one table, two chairs, flypaper strips in between Chinese lanterns, and for some reason a ton of maps of the city.

So, you know, romanticism was at it’s apex.  Then this happened…

8:45ish…

“Anything else?” The young lady asks while putting down our check.  What if I said yes? What if I wanted some fried, green tea ice cream?  Maybe tonight of all nights I craved something that could simultaneously speed up and slow down my metabolism. (I didn’t, I just wanted to get dinner over with for some sushi breath sexy time.)

“No, thank you.” I innocently answered while we still had two mountains of, well it looks like the sushi chef was drunk, got home and made this for himself.

Munchies 420

At 8:50ish, another, different waitress comes over and starts to take our plates, FULL OF FOOD, away!

“Umm, we’re not done.” My beauty responds while forking in a massive glob of sushi.

“Pfft.”

Now, allow me to recreate the scene for you.

date night

I’m on the right, she’s on the left. The waitress comes from behind me to the table.  So, as she walked away, and I heard “pfft”, I wouldn’t have been crazy to think she, well, tooted… I mean seriously, what the hell is “pfft’?

She didn’t fart…

“Did you hear that?” My wide-eyed damsel asked with escalating insanity.

“Yeah…”I responded while trying to not come across as a coward. I mean…Who “pfft’s”?

“Um, excuse me, but we are going to finish OUR food, which WE (Keith) paid for!” She fired with a harsh, instigating tone and forks another mouthful of…I don’t think it’s sushi anymore.

“We’re closing!” The “pffter” slashed back.

“When?” My lady parry’s.

“9:30!”… “Pffter” is pissed! However…

“And what time is it now?” It was 8:5something, but it sure as sugar wasn’t even 9.

A second of silence (it was a glorious second too).

“Sorry, what time?  Excuse me, what time is it now? Ya, I thought so!” 1984 Mike Tyson had nothing on her…And ya, she’s ferocious, however, the tone in her voice not only changed, it developed an accent.  (foreshadowing, and no, it wasn’t high pitched like the aforementioned 1984 boxer.) 

You know what question I hate being asked by anyone I meet online? (Insert 93 jokes here.) 

“How long have you been online dating?”

The truth, I’ve been on and off for over 10 years…10 YEARS!  Again, off and on…There was this 5 year window where I didn’t have any online dating activity.  You know, because I was, well, married.  Little did I know that I was the only one in that relationship who took a break from the world wide interweb!

Have I told you about my student film “Good Grief”?

Anyway, I say that to say this, I’ve been on a dawg gone ton of dates. And this, a legitimate cat fight at a Sushi restaurant…Didn’t see that coming.

My response?

“Come on, lets go.”

Sexy time, sexy time, sexy time…Seriously, my heart was thumping like a pair of sneakers in the dryer. This was the best foreplay ever! (not really, but still pretty awesome) Very one sided, but still something so very erotic about it.  (The soft core porn writer in me was envisioning them somehow crossing paths later on and then…well…)

“Ya, lets…”  She acquiesced while firing daggers with her eyes towards the Waitress from Hell!

We walked out hand in hand to my car…I left a small tip…But I did tip.

My Car

I lease a 2016 Honda Accord Coupe.  Nice, sleek, sporty, and from time to time it can be like a fat kid in skinny jeans, a little tight.  Tonight was one of those nights.  For you see, we were going to let her car warm up while we “talked” and then made our way to a bar to “chat”.

We didn’t make it there it to the bar.

We spent the rest of the night, well, seeing how much two people could maneuver in a 2016 Honda Accord Coupe. Yet, somewhere in the middle of all of this, in the middle of her telling me how she thinks I’m “the one” and the guy she’s been waiting and “praying for”.

“I’ve got to tell you, I’m dating someone… And…Ya,  I have another date tomorrow.”

So, let me get this dawg gone straight, only 5 dawg gone hours ago, I was in dawg gone “tears” because you read my dawg gone blog and thought I was a dawg gone player. But NOW, you’re telling me that you not only have a dawg gone boyfriend, but you’re “technically” cheating on him and have plans on doing it again tomorrow, AFTER you dawg gone told me I was the dawg gone one you’ve been “praying for”?

And do you think I mentioned this?

Her response:

“I’m living my life, how I want to live my life, and I’m sorry, no, no I’m not sorry, I’m going to be me and this, this is me.”

Yeah, I had no dawg gone clue what that meant.  All I did know was that tone with the accent was back.  And it scared the ever-living poo out of me.

I’m done! I’m done! I’m so dawg gone done!

But not until we fooled around for another solid couple hours (it was brutally cold that night. Remember that stretch where it was like -17 every damn night? Well, it was in the middle of that.  We turned my car on and off like 23 times.  It was a perfect metaphor for the inhabitants of said car on this evening.).

Anyway, we parted ways.  Two days later we decided it wasn’t going to work.

And I also decided my online dating movie was…well, “Fin”.

Then, well, I got this text from someone I hadn’t heard from in some time, and it read:

“Hey Keith, Happy New Year!”

-k

Authors Note: Totally have my MeetMindful page still up. Because, well…

I AM PENICILLIN!

Spac Profile Pic 

 

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.

20180313_081319.jpg

(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)

20180315_072054.jpg

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

-k

 

Tales of Serial Dater: The Do’s and Dont’s of Online Dating

We’ve seen the commercials about finding someone special using an app and/or website.  You know the ones, they are usually sandwiched in between a pill that will get you to quit smoking, yet will cause you to tirelessly contemplate killing yourself.

But hey, at least you quit smoking.

And the other commercial is about life insurance.

So, to recap, quit smoking by slitting your wrists, find the love of your life, then buy life insurance. Clearly they are in no specific order.  Because that would be, you know, influential.

Nonetheless, as you sit at home on a Friday night, binge watching Stranger Things,  while eating your 4th pint of Halo Top Ice Cream, you decide that you’re tired of being alone.

So, you do it, you sign up for online dating.

Your gender, age, race, or sexual orientation aside, this is a world unlike any other.

Why?

Well, allow me to elaborate by giving you what will happen as you create your profile and…well, what will happen immediately after.

VINNY

For a man, you sit there and upload photos that you think are cool.  Ones of you doing stuff and photos of the stuff you like doing.

What do I mean?

Well, Vinny from Secaucus, NJ loves his IROC. So here are photos of him in his IROC. Here are photos of him shirtless washing his IROC.  And of course, a photo of his IROC, all alone in its glory.

Vinny will describe himself as a fun guy that loves to play hoop, have drinks with the boyz, and of course, his IROC. His primary objective is to land a hot broad that will be fun for him to go to the club with and show off to his buddies.

BONNIE

Meanwhile there is Bonnie from Burlington, VT.  She has photos of her hiking, her friends, her hiking with her friends, her dog, her hiking with her dog, and of course, the mountain she hiked, all alone in its glory.

Bonnie will describe herself as an intellectual that is down to earth.  She is looking for someone that will love her with or without make up, preferably without, someone that she can have coffee with, drink Pinot Grigio with, is kind to her dog, and will love spending time with her friends and family.

They couldn’t be any further a part.  Yet, so very similar.

Once they complete their profiles, they submit.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Vinny will go on a Safari like Rainbow Randolph in Death to Smoochy!

Vinnies hunt consists of him:

Finding any and all ladies on there that attract him.  Not paying one bit of attention to what they’ve written, where they are and what they do.  All he looks at are the pics, and when he’s done, he’s liked all their photos, winked at all their profiles, and sent an obscene amount of emails. All with the elegant prose of:

“Hey, wanna hook up?” Written underneath a pic of his dick.  While in his IROC.

His reward:

Endless notifications from fictitious profiles from “girls” that look like they are supermodels, have zero standards in their “Wants/Looking For” and magically live in this town where the hottest girl in town IS the hottest girl in town because she has more than 9 teeth.  I’m from Vermont, so I have some expertise on that. All providing their email in their profile that looks like: merta@gamaledotcom

Meanwhile, theirs Bonnie. She hits submit, and before she even has the opportunity to go “shopping” for the man of her dreams…

Her reward:

Endless notifications from every man imaginable that likes all of her photos, winks, and endless emails with the elegant prose of:

“Hey, wanna hookup?”

And if she doesn’t respond to guys like Vinny, Vinny calls her a cunt and hopes she dies in hell.

Nice huh? And that of course is written underneath a pic of his dick, while in his IROC.

Before she has an opportunity to have an opportunity, she is already contemplating whether or not this has been the biggest mistake of her life.

With that, I give you my online dating do’s…Oh, and before I begin, you may be wondering what gives me the credibility to be your “Online Dating Guru”?

Well, please note what a parable is, and see if the stories above may seem somewhat insightful.

And no, I don’t own an IROC…

With that:

DO’S

Be yourself.  Seriously, not everyone is comfortable writing about themselves.  And I get that. I have no problem with it per se, however, I understand there is a comfort level in it.  Seriously, you’re on an online dating site, whoring yourself out to the most eligible bachelor or bachelorette.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say confidence isn’t your strongest emotion.

So, if you’re uncomfortable about writing about yourself, don’t. Write about who you want to meet and what you want.  And if that is too hard for you, then what the fuck are you doing?!?

You don’t know who you are, or what you want?

My suggestion then, go find some porn and take care of business until you figure that shit out.

Why?

We don’t go on a road trip without knowing where we want to go do we? Sometimes people like to go for a drive. But they know who they are and why they are doing it.  And typically that is in an effort to “clear your head”.

Well, you subjecting yourself to this world is in hopes of finding love…right?  Or it may be to get laid.  Again, if that is the case, you have some standards now don’t you? And if you don’t please refer to the porn comment a paragraph ago.

Point being, if you don’t know who you are, or what you want, then you will suffer immeasurable pain.  You will be treated like shit by some piece of shit that is just like you.

You will come across serial daters, such as…

Spac Profile Pic

And they are just as lost as you, and will tell you all the things you want to hear in an effort to make themselves feel better. Which of course it won’t.  So, what do they do? Take you for granted, take advantage of you, and take away your dignity as they walk away like you never existed.  All after they made you feel like the greatest thing on earth since Blue Raspberry Airheads.

Insecurity has always been an issue of mine. Until this past week.

THANKS TONY ROBBINS!

Tony-Robbins

And when you’re insecure, you lack the confidence to be present with a woman you find attractive. To go engage them.  Instead, with online dating, you have all these “likes, winks, then emails.”  What ends up happening? Your expectations grow to unimaginable levels and the lady or man you meet doesn’t stand a Pint of Halo Top ice cream chance in hell.

This leads me to the next point:

Don’ts

Don’t fucking do it.  Don’t go online to date.

Imagine this, you meet someone online, you engage them, they like you, and you like them, then you meet, then you realize they suck, then what?

Next!

Why can’t it be like that with someone you meet at the grocery store, the gym, through a friend, through fucking Facebook?  At least on Facebook you can see all the photos they DON’T post on an online dating site.  Seriously! I’ve gone out with girls that had their profile pic on Match.com be a photo taken back in 2008!  Do you think she looks a little different in the fucking decade since?

Moral of the story.  Please believe in yourself.  Who you see in the mirror may be beautiful to a stranger.  Christ, we all get tired of certain people in our lives, seeing them day after day after day. So you can bet your sweet ass that your perspective may be a little skewed  when you see yourself.

To you, you may look nothing but ugly.

To another, you may be the most exquisite thing they’ve ever seen.

Good luck!

-k

 

Please feel free to subscribe to be notified of my next blog postings. And if you’d like to reach me, email me at: kth08250@gmail.com

Dating Diaries: Epilogue

Authors Note: After writing my initial thoughts on Online Dating, followed by three epic tales of dating disasters;  I felt it was necessary to conclude by telling you where I’m currently at.  Also, the views expressed in this blog  may not represent my current state of mind.  They are just thoughts for the sake of your entertainment.  With that…

Decisions

A lifetime ago, when I was a chubby, chainsmoking car salesman; I learned this whole little spiel about Benjamin Franklin:

Me: You know Ben Franklin right?

Authors Note: Now here comes an inappropriate yet oh so appropriate aside; there used to be this store in Fair Haven, VT named Ben Franklin.  So, when selling cars in Vermont, which is something I forgot to mention, sorry.  One could see how someone, if asked if they “know Ben Franklin?”, there is a chance they may be thinking of a department store)

Them: Of course

Me: Good. Before he made a decision…

Authors Note: Me again, God, I suck at story telling!  Why the fuck am I talking about Ben Franklin (man not store) while trying to sell a car? Let me catch you up to speed:   At this point, the person won’t commit to buying the car.  They’ve taken a test drive, toured the dealership, been offered a cup of something hot or cold to drink a solid 9 times, and sat there while you go back to see your manager to “see what you can do” about the monthly payment for the third time claiming this is the best we can do each of those times.  And now, they are about to cause the biggest fear in auto salespersons miserable life; the prospect/customer is about to walk without buying. Why does this cause so many salespeople to drink? To smoke? To contemplate blowing up the whole fucking dealership on a daily basis? Because when you leave, you go from being an 80/20 to a 20/80. The left number representing your chances of buying vs. the right side indicating you taking my number and shopping it for ten dollars less a month.  And while you’re walking out the door,  I have to now face my sales manager, general manager, and sometimes owner, to explain  why the one fucking customer to come in today didn’t buy.  But before that happens, I throw a “Hail Mary” and I ask if you know of Ben Franklin (man not store)? Oh and I now have a pen and paper.

Me: …well, before Ben Franklin ever made a decision…

This would really fuck with them if they were thinking store not man.

Me: …he would grab a piece of paper and pen

I am literally showing them me holding a piece of a paper and a pen. This is all before I try to convince them to sign away 5 years of their life to pay from something that miraculously isn’t worth shit the moment they sign for it. But here look, I have paper, and here look, I have pen!

Me: And he would draw a line down the middle.

Authors Note: Ya, me again.  I really allow you, the reader, to get into a flow now don’t I? Anywho, one thing I love to write, and when I say love, I mean despise more than the inevitable colonoscopy.  One thing I love to write are screenplays.  So, this is really bothering me that I am writing physical actions without describing them.

For example, “I’m about to cry” and my dates eyes spring leaks out of her face as if she was a nuclear submarine in the Abyss of the Atlantic.” 

However, it also causes me to reflect on how idiotic and condescending I used to talk to people.  And we wonder why buying a car drives us nuts! 

 

So I would then draw a line down the middle

Me: On one side Franklin (man not store) would write yes, and one side, he would write no.

What would follow is me going through everything the person liked about the vehicle:

Me: You love the color, the interior, the safety features, the make, the model, how it drove, you liked the fact I pointed out to you that if you look on your gas gauge and you see an arrow next to the gas tank indicator, you now know what side your tank is on.

No shit, people loved that! And if you didn’t know that until now, you’re welcome.

Me: And on the no side is price.

Price, you know, the thing that determines whether or not you have money to eat, buy clothing, heat your home which is pretty important in Vermont, send your kids to school with said food and clothing, pay all your utilities, etc.  Essentially, the only thing on the no side is whether or not you can afford it…But did I mention you loved the color?

Now, here is the thing and the purpose of this entire blog: I do the same exact goddamn thing with every girl I date or have the prospect of dating. And I truly think they do the same to me. Which they should, because I am a ninja at sucking at relationships.  And why?

Well…

Chubby, chain smoking Car Salesman me: So do you know Ben Franklin (man not store)?

Single, content with being alone me: Yes

Chubby, chain smoking Car Salesman me: What do you like about relationships?

Single, content with being alone me: Sex and occasional company

Chubby, chain smoking Car Salesman me: And why not?

Single, content with being alone me: Well, my parents were divorced which means my perspective of love is as fucked as Pollack painting.  Dating at this age in life means that every time I meet someone, I have to defend my life up until this exact moment. And after that, after you’ve looked over my past;  I’m more than likely going to apologize for here moving forward. Oh, and being in a relationship means I have to pay for EVERYTHING!  Dinner, coffee, parks, movies, ice skating, tubing, Coach purses, flowers, and don’t even get me fucking going on the jewelry you never wear!

And IF you offer to pay, for lets say dinner: Taking money out of your aforementioned Coach purse that I paid for, takes forever.  Like it’s the slowest goddamn thing on Earth. It’s like watching grass grow if grass were an 90 year old Italian woman driving in Boca Raton. And it’s even better with an audience. Audiences like Flo, the lovely waitress standing  there, judging, watching, judging.  All the while holding :the check” that was placed in front of me only moments ago with the assumption that I was paying.  Finally, after I’ve already grown back the “five o’clock shadow” that I disposed of only two hours ago:  I give up and say, “no, I got it”, and your jewelry free hands pull away from your $300 purse as if it was as hot as the goddamn sun!

“”Oh you sure?” She softly asks while acquiescing.

Ya, I’m sure. I’m sure for the rest of my life I’m going to be broke! And what do I want in return?

Sex. That’s it.

Essentially, being in a relationship is the most accepted form of prostitution. IF, she doesn’t have a “headache” or doesn’t “feel like it”.

That’s why! That’s why dating at this age is as fun as…nothing. There is nothing as fun as this.

Yet, this is where you, Mr. or Mrs. married couple with two gorgeous kids and a day full of frustration and smiles, this is where you say:

Love.

You know, love? Love that makes your heart race when you think of her.  Makes you smile no matter how many emails your CEO throws your way because your company is 1% down from the previous quarter.  Love, the thing that provides you confidence to take on the entire world day after day because you have her.  That no matter what you’re facing, you’re going to be okay, because she loves you.  Love, the thing that makes every moment your not with her feel like Christmas Eve and the moments you are with her are like the greatest Christmas Day ever!

Love…

If I wasn’t so squeemish, I’d put a youtube clip of someone vomitting.

But, I guess love is like price. All the other shit is just window dressing.  If you can get over the price, you can enjoy all the things you do love about the car.

And I guess if you can get over all the other shit… love, the feeling we all covet in everything we do, love is your gift.

And I conclude with this…

I may have met her…

I think I met her…

Ya…I met her…

And all I can think of is…her…and…

What the fuck am I going to write about now?

-k