Category Archives: Self Help

The Pursuit of Inevitable Failure: Prologue

A box of heath bar.

It’s that what we call it? Heath bar?  Anything with toffee wrapped in delicious chocolate goes by the name of Heath, right?

I personally credit Ben and Jerry with its meteoric rise in popularity as opposed to, well, Heath.

Meanwhile, the folks at Skor are calling me a son of a bitch.

Oh, and if you’re one of those who refers to it as chocolate covered toffee…Enjoy your catsup you pretentious douche.

Anyway, back to the box of heath bar, or in this case lack thereof.

Also known as the “gift” which finally caused me to quit my career of  10 plus years.

A career that saw me as the #5 (bottom of the totem pole…even though on a totem pole, the bottom is actually the most artistic due to the more experienced artist…you don’t care do you?) on a radio sales team in Rutland, VT. (#5’s don’t bill shit, we’ll get to that) Eventually though, after a change of scenery (moved to another market, more on that in a moment) I became a Senior Exec. (long tenured, suffering salesman), and finally, most recently, promoted to General Sales Manager.

The market was/is Glens Falls, NY.  A market I moved to because I desperately needed to leave a city, Rutland, which made me feel like I constantly needed to shower while exfoliating all the dead skin years upon years upon years of drug abuse and alcohol addiction created.

And the fact I’m a sucker for a gorgeous face.  Especially when it talks back to me for longer than “anything else with that?”

Recently a young lady asked me if “I’ve found everything I was looking for?”  Instinctively I wondered, “is she flirting with me?” I struggled until I heard the woman behind me ask the same thing to the 90-year-old person in front of them.

Yes, I was at Hannaford.

So, my judgment has always been a little off when it comes to the ladies.

I don’t know if you’ve heard or read.

Well, within the first few days of having a new zip code, the man who hired me was leaving and the girl I salivated for told me to wipe my chin because she thinks of me as her brother.

Which is the nice way of saying, “ya, I don’t want to see you naked.”

So, what did I do? I hooked up with a mentally ailing girl that got me hooked to Xanax. No shit. Fucking Xanax. The exact same pill a 17-year-old, LSD dropping, leather pants wearing (I had this obsession with Jim Morrison. Did I mention the LSD?)  version of me who “tried” to pull a Hemingway while writing like, well, Jim Morrison. (You ever read some of his stuff? Not that good.)

Ya, this gal “got me” (she didn’t realize she had the job of handling my life) addicted (like I needed help) to Xanax.  Why? I don’t know, maybe because she knew what I was inevitably going to do in a month.  (I have this thing about 30 days.)

Funny thing, not like ha, ha funny, well, the reason why she offered me her Xanax; WHICH by the way, this bipolar, beautiful girl, like diagnosed bipolar, well, she shouldn’t be doling out milligrams of her prescribed medication now should she? Well, I was paying for everything, dinner, flowers, breakfast, one way trips to Schenectady (shiver), so I got that shit for free! (not really, dinner was usually at this Italian place down the street where the bread and butter they put on your table is $20 added into your bill. Not literally, unless you don’t know what literally means. Then yes, literally the bill had a $20 charge for fucking bread and butter you fucking moron.  Google literally! Fuck!)

(sorry)

I was taking Nyquil and Advil PM at the time. Not at the same time.  That’s like low budget “speed-balling”.

“We found Mr. Hannigan comatose on the couch with syrup leaking out of the corners of his mouth while it appears that he was masturbating to a young ladies match.com bikini pic.”

Let’s get back to my job.

I hated my job and it was causing me to not sleep and have my eye twitch. Which I can only imagine was due in part to the former. So, instead of quitting my job, I decided to plow through by developing a psychological addiction to sleeping medications that were “non-habit forming”.(Challenge Accepted.)  One night, she noticed how I took double the recommended amount (I do that with EVERYTHING.  Because, I’m 5’6, 165lbs.  I clearly need twice as much as everyone else). She scoffed at my “poor man’s Ambien.”

Thank GOD she did because she then introduced me to her bottomless bottle of sedatives.  Which eventually “evolved” into a mild addiction to a pretty high dosage of Xanax. (mention she was fucking nuts?  Like “literally”?  Teaching moment: She wasn’t actually nuts, like an almond or cashew.  That’s what literally means.  So, if she were “literally nuts”, she would be a pistachio.  Come to think of it, if she were a pistachio, I would probably have kept her around. Swear to Christ I’m going to crack my tooth trying to open the one that doesn’t have an ass crack to it.  Know what I mean?)

Anyway, after countless trips to a city I despised. After a rapidly dwindling bank account. After days of calling and texting with no response because she couldn’t get out of bed for days! After she made me sit there and watch fucking “Marley and Me” knowing how much I missed…well…

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Oh, and after she broke one of my two, fucking TWO rules I have for dating me:

  1. Don’t cheat on me (funny thing about that, and if you’re not aware, have you heard about my student film “Good Grief”?)
  2. Don’t do cocaine.

She didn’t cheat on me.

Instead, I did get a phone call at 6am on a Sunday with her telling me why I was going to break up with her.  She was strung out on blow while sitting on her filthy tiled bathroom floor trying to come down as others were crashed in her bed.  Something tells me Rule #1 may have been involved as well…

Needless to say, we broke up later that week…

Not before the first and only night she slept in my apartment. (you know, a man’s compelling urge to have sex one last time, knowing it is, well, the struggle is real my friends.) However, when you’re fucking crazy, I guess you sleep, A LOT!  (By the way, if you’re bipolar, you’re not crazy. All her ailment gave me was/ is a reason to call her fucking crazy. And if you’re reading, own that shit.)  Why do I mention her sleeping pattern? Because you had to lock the door from the OUTSIDE in my overpriced dorm-room in Saratoga Springs, NY. (Beautiful. Saratoga, not my apartment. It was a piece of shit that had a smoke detector 5 feet from the fucking oven!)  Think about that. I wake up, have to go to work, I have a Angelina Jolies character in Girl, Interrupted knocked out on a Hunter S. Thompson nightcap in my bed.

So, I did what any rational, clear thinking, intelligent human being would do…

I left her my key……………………………………….(…………………………)…………

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate and have a potential situation lying in your bed?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment Spare Key Award?

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment AND 2006 Ford Fusion Spare Key Award? (yes, same keyring. #WINNING)

Do you know what it’s like to sit at a job you hate with a potential situation lying in your bed who is now the recipient of the Keith T. Hannigan Apartment And 2006 Ford Fusion Key Award, while chatting with another girl for the past week who would eventually become your ex-wife? (Did I forget to mention that?)

And I needed some GODDAMN XANAX!

Eventually, she left my place, and I broke up with her via Facebook Chat. That night, I was unable to sleep due to not only fear of her coming into my place and slitting my throat as I slept and then taking off in my 2006 Ford Focus;  but, what I could only imagine was a mild case of  Xanax withdrawal.

I ended up going out with the girl I was chatting with.  We fought, fucked, moved in, bought a house, married, then… Have I told you about my student film “Good Grief”?

After my divorce, I went back to school, made said movie, finally got my fucking degree but also got bitten by a rabid cat, broke up with a girl who was one of many (Feel free to read more at http://athletichippie.blog.  PS:  I’m neither athletic or a hippie, I just get stoned and workout.) thought I caught an STD, had a Prostate Cancer cancer “scare”, (it had been a few years since I had a good ole greasy finger shoved in my ass so, you know...) got promoted, went to Tony Robbins, went back to Church, realized why I hated Church, discovered having a faith is nice, stopped paying attention to everything I couldn’t control, isolated myself for the past couple years and decided to write with a self-deprecating yet sanctimonious tone, went to another Tony Robbins thing that cost me a year of student loan payments (I wish it was that little…), got back and didn’t get my goddamn box of fucking heath bar!

So, I said:

“I quit”.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t tell the whole thing about the basket case blonde in my bed to say I should of quit that day. Even though the thought did go through my head so I could just make sure she didn’t keep my key. WHICH SHE DID!

Good for her. I was a piece of shit for breaking up with her on Facebook Chat.  (It wasn’t messenger back then, so fuck off!)

Anyway, the heath bar.

Every year, and I mean the last three or four, the owner of the company gives us a box of this heath bar for our Christmas “bonus”. Jelly of the Month Club it ain’t, but it is pretty fucking amazing!  More addicting than Xanax (nope) and twice as delicious (yep).

Well, it just so happened that my “Date with Destiny” was the same day as the “Annual Awkward Christmas Party”. Past parties have included such hits as  “drunken boyfriend of the part-time (2 hours a week) salesperson ($550 a month in sales, not much, typically the amount the #5 salesperson bills. See what I did there?), yeah, he told us about how much he didn’t like country radio (our top biller) and then told us to not sell just radio, but to tell people to buy our competition”.

And then there was “Why don’t you invest in H.S.A?” speech last year.

“Ask not what you can do for your country” worthy…

So, you can clearly see I was heartbroken for not being there.

I’m also 6 foot 2 and black.

And clearly when I got back from my six days and six nights of “Emotional Bootcamp” (where I was getting my balls inflated to finally do something)  I wanted to know two things:

  • What were the inspiring words given during the “not too bad, not too great either” dinner?
  • Where’s my goddamn heath bar?

For you see, I just completed my first year as General Sales Manager.  And thank God for my team, because in a year where the company and industry as a whole was hemorrhaging due to, well, a lot…We were up! Year over year, we were the only ones fucking up!

So, the least I could get, being the one in charge of generating revenue, was some delicious heath bar to make me feel like shit and fat before I see my judgmental family during the holiday season!

“Sorry, he took it back.”- Anonymous Source.

I sought out confirmation, and it was true.  The day after I just flew back from Florida on 3 hours of sleep, the early stages of the flu/bronchitis that would last for two weeks, and a spot on impersonation of Kathleen Turner due to singed vocal cords and the aforementioned sickness; My beloved heath bar was in the belly of another. Or sewage system.  More than likely sewage system.

That was the moment I said to myself “I’m done”.

I said it out loud too.  To my boss.  A man I absolutely admire and adore. A good man.

I’m done waking up to the initial thought of  “when will I say enough is enough”?

And if I should jerk off.

When will I wake up and not have to be burdened by numbers when I fucking HATE numbers?

 

Meanwhile, my job is only about numbers.

Before, well, before I could write. I could write fun, creative, inspired commercials.

Before I was so consumed by having to hit a number…

I had the freedom to just write.

Write commercials with a Scottish dude yelling at you why a golf course was ruining the game because their prices were so low.  Commercials where a badgering salesperson called relentlessly to a woman that wanted to think about spending 30k on a car.  Commercials where Bill Clinton wanted to fuck the waitresses and eat Prime Rib.

Now, now I have to adhere to daily, weekly, and monthly budgets.  And if we hit, nothing, I’m left alone. Except, well, not really. Because, well, I receive more emails that suck than praise. A 60:1 ratio. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care to have my ass patted and told “atta boy”. But I sure as shit don’t like reading how “we’re a disappointment” and “need to turn the pressure up” when we’re doing what we’re supposed. (I need some Nyquil thinking about it.)

No more.

Years ago, I got 6 “brownies” during a specific type of season in Vermont where, well, things are good. Hours later, my fat, selfish ass (out of 6 brownies, I had 4, I gave one each to my roommate and BFF) was flipping out in bed while my cell phone rang with ringtone of “Shout At the Devil” by Motley Crue.  You could say I was a c-hair away from flipping the fuck out.  Then, I realized I was on drugs, calmed down, took deep breaths, and tried not to call 911 from my Satanic Samsung.

A friend looked at me the next day after telling him this story, and he said:

“All those years of drugs prepared you for that moment.”

Nice way to think of it. As opposed to, well, the fact I was actually taking drugs…so, you know, you deserved it.

I say that to say this…

I’m done wondering when I’ll be ready.

I’m done waking up and wondering when will today be the last day…and if I should use a sock or tissues.

I’m done reading emails about being a disappointment when there is ZERO to be disappointed about.

I’m done allowing myself to feel inadequate to something that will never, EVER be adequate.

I’m done wondering if I will have the balls tomorrow to say it’s over.

Why?

Because it is tomorrow.

 

Fucking heath bar…

-k

WHERE ARE THEY NOW:

The girl I moved out here for, actually we’re great friends.  She’s found her perfect man and I have a really hot “sister” that I want to…get advice from.

The bipolar girl is a mom, I believe, which means I know through photos I’ve found via Facebook stalking.

However, there is someone out there missing their 2006 Ford Fusion.

Please feel free to follow to find out when more Chapters of my “Pursuit of Inevitable Failure” are released.

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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.”

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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.

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“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…

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-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 

 

How I Got and Stayed Sober in 5 Steps: My Journey, 13 Years later…

Authors Note: Some of what you’re about to read may disturb and/or bother you. But, here is my attitude about that, first, how intriguing of a beginning huh? I got your attention, now I better not fuck it up. Back to my attitude, if things in life don’t bother those that are the subject, than I really don’t find it necessary to allow myself to be bothered by it. Unless the subject isn’t strong enough to have a choice, then, you have the strength of two and fight for them. This isn’t one of those cases.

For those who have read many of my tales, you know they usually consist of online dating fails or experiences at self-help seminars. But guess what? I’m actually a paid blogger now! No shit, big shout out to Chris at Six Marketing for taking a chance on a guy known for self-deprecating vulgar posts where I take aim at defenseless, psychotic women.

Authors Note: Holy shit do I have a story for you! I’ve written 3/4 of it, but I can’t release it quite yet. It’s called “The Rosary”. TEASE!

Nonetheless, I’m a paid blogger. And yes, I have a crush on a girl that is way too young for me. Why? Because I’m a non-committal douchebag (more on that in a moment) who loves pretty girls. Anyway, yeah, I wrote it. Let the line for possible sexual harassment suit start right…here. Kidding, I don’t have the balls to sexually harass someone. Matter of fact, I’m typically the one being harassed. What can I say, my ass of a pregnant black chick looks nice in a pair of designer jeans.

So, I’m told.
Anniversary Alert

Yesterday, I was about to hop on the Facebook to stalk all you like usual, but my computer loves to post images on my log in screen. Typically they consist of beautiful, exotic locations I could never afford to voyage off to. Even though these shit brown, near and now far sighted eyes of mine have been blessed with the marvels of God’s canvas.

Other times, I have images of spectacular animals from said regions and beyond. Well, I was graced with a picture of a snow owl that looked as if it was dying of laughter.

laughing snow owl

This isn’t the exact one, but it’s equally as magnificent.

Anyway, I instantly googled images of laughing white owls. They are actually snow owls, but I guess I have some deep seeded racism within me. And to think, the race of my sexual conquests are as diverse as the Captain Planet Planeteers!

Never had a ginger though…I don’t think…Maybe…I had spots on my penis once afterward, so I may have…

Anyway, while googling said images of said owls, I came across one that looked drunk

drunk keith owl

And another that looked stoned

hippie keith owl

And then I recalled something… It’s been 13 years since I stopped getting piss the bed drunk and almost having a heart attack on cocaine.

And then I thought to myself, “self, why don’t we tell people how we got there?” God forbid I write about something other than my self absorbed ramblings about the opposite sex and Tony Robbins.

I mean, I’ve almost overdosed twice. Once, was half-hearted intentional when I was 17. I say half hearted because right in the middle of it all, I grabbed a handful of my late, the man I aspire to be, grandfathers xanax. And when I say half-hearted, I mean this: In my drunken, drugged haze, I went downstairs to grab more xanax, I did. Then, well then, I put some back. You tell me if I wanted to die that night?

As opposed to the completely unintentional time I was “coked outta my skull” on my lifelong friends couch, her mothers couch to be precise, and my heart was beating so hard it caused my sternum to visibly bounce. And it just…wouldn’t…stop…I prepared myself mentally to die that night… Not a good time, not at all.

Funny how as I write this, and anyone suffering from any form of addiction will empathize, I realize:

While under the influence, your mind wants more than your heart can handle.

Yet while sober, your heart wants more than your mind can handle.

Folks, I know myself. I know myself quite well. Whether it’s telling you about why I’m god fucking awful at dating and/or relationships. Whether it’s telling you about my journey externally and more so internally on a voyage into and through “Emotional College”.

And, whether it was being treated at facility at the age of 17 for my aforementioned suicide attempt, whether it was for the weeks that followed surrounded by court mandated alcoholics and drug addicts who were twice if not three times my age, or whether it was from all the projectiles being flung at me from all angles of life…Many of which, self-induced…

It’s time to share a story about how I got to 13 years without a sip or a snort.
Step 1: Acceptance

Ya, there was none of that.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew good and goddamn well that I was sucking at life. But, when you’re in the deep end of the Olympic sized pool of addiction, all that matters is when you’re getting more and how…

Truth be told, when I officially went sober a week and a half into February of 2005, it wasn’t the first time. Hell, it wasn’t the first time in six months. And I’m clueless as to why I went sober six months earlier.

But, I could tell you about the night I relapsed. I could tell you what caused it. And I could tell you about the hell that followed including getting thrown out of college and having one of my best friends swallow a self-inflicted bullet.

Instead, I will tell you the last bit of “cocaine” I did was probably powdered sugar. No, it was powdered sugar. And thank god, because I had just polished off an “eight ball” of blow hours earlier. No, not by myself, but when I was sharing, I sure as shit was inhaling right next to them. By the way, those that don’t know why it’s called an eight ball, it’s mathematics. An eight ball is 3.5 grams of coke. An 1/8th of an ounce. Your street cred just increased by one point, you’re welcome.

And the last bit of alcohol I tasted was a warm Miller Lite.

Two days later, I got pulled over.

Driving to work, a block drive from where I was living, I got nabbed because I didn’t have my seat belt on and I didn’t have my 93′ Cadillac El Dorado (I’m such an asshole) inspected.

I mean who could afford to get something like a car inspected when I was paying 80 fucking dollars for a goddamn gram of confectionery sugar?

Nonetheless, I got pulled over and ticketed. I was informed by said officer if my car were to be inspected within the next week, I would have my ticket torn up.

Told the cat at work I needed to take care of some personal shit and took my car to the local garage, Blows Service Station. Still to this day, greatest slogan ever:

“There’s no job like a Blow job!”

No shit, their last name was Blow. People so wanted to be offended. Especially in city of 12,000 that had 3 Catholic Churches. Know why they couldn’t?

Freedom!

I’ve been going there for years, they even gave me a t-shirt. God I loved that shirt.

But on this day, they weren’t going to give me an inspection sticker unless I had $1500 for new brake lines and some other shit that sounded like high pitch ringing once I heard $1500.

Instead, well, they may have saved my life.
Step 2: Make a decision and get leverage against yourself

So, of course, I couldn’t afford the repairs, I mean $1500 is a fuckload of powdered sugar.

What was I to do?

God knows it wasn’t simply go to one of the 975 other places in Vermont that would have inspected my wannabe mafioso, chubby, hairy ass. I mean, I wasn’t too fat back then. After I quit drinking, different story. After I quit drinking, I looked like a glazed ham that got dropped on a barber shop floor.

hairy guy selfie

I wasn’t THAT bad. But I’m a little furry. And when I say a little furry, I don’t mean I’m little and dress like an animal while attending conventions for said fettish.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I didn’t go to the garage in Proctor with a guy named Ernie who would throw an inspection sticker on my window for a twenty. Instead, I did the rational thing.

Ya, I couldn’t afford a new one. And no, it wasn’t because of my negotiating sugar price skills. It was because my credit was so good I received no less than 5 calls a day from credit card companies wishing to speak to me.

Needless to say, I owed a few bucks.

Needless to say, I was failing at life.

Needless to say, I needed something that would snap me out of it.

And it came from the most obvious of places:

A 1999 Ford Explorer with a dent in the door.

Somehow, I was able to get approved, but the cost? $100 more a month than I was already paying…or more so, not paying for my Caddy.

How was I going to do it?

“Fine, I’ll have to quit drinking and doing drugs”.

Funny, in life, at least back then, I would select one person every year, consciously or subconciously to be my arch nemesis. And back on this day, it just so happened to be the gal selling me this car.

“Like you can do that.” She quipped in condescending yet accurately cunty way.

Little did she know that’s what I respond to.

Doubt me, please.

Let me know you feel that way, please.

Because, that’s when I say:

“Fuck you, watch!”

I should really thank her for that…

Ya, Im good.

Step 3: Commitment

Oh the first few days were hell. You have to cut out at least 25 people from your life, and even alienate yourself from the only friends you thought you knew. And somehow ask for forgiveness from the ones that watched you die from the sidelines.

Try not to get angry with those that say, “I was going to tell you that you need to quit”.

Try not to respond with, “Oh really? I would of thanked you if you did”.

Which is nothing more than a bold faced bullshit of a lie. Like I would of listened to anyone. Cindy Crawford could have been naked with a sash saying “Property of Keith Hannigan” telling me I was dying from my addiction. And I would have told her to go fuck herself and she turned Richard Gere gay.

For you see, I was simply looking for someone, anyone to be pissed off with.

When the cocksucker in the mirror is the one I truly hated.

You go and tell your mother and kid brother that you’re an alcoholic and an addict. She doesn’t know what to do, so she offers you to cook for you. Bless her heart. All the while kid brother looks at you and you see him judging you as weak and a coward. Bless his heart, he’s just sick of being scared about losing his only brother.

You tell your dad and he freezes. Bless his heart, only months earlier he was suffering from a marriage he couldn’t escape from.

Bless your friends that didn’t know how to respond because at the age of 26, who could have such a drug and drinking problem? I mean, that’s for guys in their 40’s and 50’s…right?

Bless all them for only years earlier, they were all standing above you in a hospital room asking:

“Why?”

You want to be angry, so angry. What the fuck! Why can’t I drink? Why can’t I ever again have a goddamn sip ever again? Why God, why did you do this to me?!? What did I do, huh? What the fuck did I ever do to you to give me this goddamn disease? Fuck you God, FUCK YOU!

Then, well, God gave me this and…I cried… a lot…

God also gave me a friend, her name was Nina. She too was battling this godforsaken disease. A disease I’ve had since birth. A disease I still have. A disease that is mine for perpetuity.

And Nina, well, she held my hand for the first month, because the first month, I wasn’t just struggling mentally. I wasn’t just struggling spiritually…I began to suffer physically…
Step 4: Supplementing and Rewarding

Now, there is a fat kid within me. People that see me today don’t believe it, but…well…

Fat Keith

Ya, I’m the one with the tits on the right.

Sugar… I had an unquenchable hunger for all I could get my hands on. And now that I was sober, I stopped paying $80 a gram for it. But Ben and Jerry’s is pretty goddamn close!

Not to mention my marijuana consumption had grown exponentially trying to alleviate the pain of withdrawal. Withdrawal feeling like you have the goddamn Bird-Flu for a month.

Authors Note: For those that say marijuana is a “gate way drug”. Folks, when I drank, I snorted cocaine, pills, and anything I could break into a powder. I smoked crack, cocaine, pills and anything that could be smoked. And I tried to sleep with any woman that gave me a second look. Good thing there is a very true tale of what cocaine does to the male libido at 4am. Very true. Meanwhile, pot, ya, it made me want to write, it made me want to eat Ben and Jerry’s and it made me want to kick my roommates ass in Madden. You tell me which one is the gateway drug!

You try to not smoke a carton of cigarettes a week because, well, your caffeine intake has also doubled if not quadrupled. And nothing pairs as well as a Marlboro Medium and a Vanilla Caramel Coffeemate.

Authors Note: This week is also my 10 year Anniversary for quitting butts. Now that, that sucked! Again though, the same principles here applied. And yes, including my marijuana consumption.

Then, then you realize something…you have more money. Holy shit, you have a lot more money. Don’t get me wrong, your luxurious tastes in ice cream (something about high priced sugar and me), coffee, cigarettes, and marijuana deplete the account. But not nightly. Not like before. So, what do you do with all this excessive income?

Save? Boring.

Pay off debt? Only as much as necessary to stop the cell phone from ringing.

And did it ever stop ringing. Especially when you think you’ve lost all of your friends. But you didn’t. Just the posers drifted away and the real ones came and took rightful place.

Not many, just the perfect amount.

You set up a reward system. Once a week, every week that goes by without a sip or a snort, you buy a dvd or a cd. The things that actually provided you joy, real, true joy. Movies and music.

But you keep thinking of something…

You miss your friend, Rocco. He was my friend who shot himself. He would have liked this healing version of me.

Instead, well, you only remember not answering his call because you were too hungover. The call he made the day before he, well, you know where this is going.
Step 5: Life without being numb.

There were days, weeks, months, and years that comprised the past 13 years where a drink would have been nice. Anything would have been nicer than having to sit and absorb, deal, think, and feel things like a painful divorce.

Instead, well, you grow.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the 5’6 guy that has a slight Napoleon complex and I guess is racist too. Who knew? Goddamn snow owls.

You develop new addictions. You know this about yourself. You know you have this addictive personality which goes guns blazing into everything that you do. So, you focus on your health. You focus on your fitness. You focus on your mental strength. You focus on getting smarter. You go back to school and knock it out of the fucking park while finding the one thing that you’re blessed enough to not only love to do, but actually have some talent at. And you focus on becoming an emotional titan with the ability to tell your tale in hopes of someone reading this and realizing they are not alone.

But first, you needed to ask for forgiveness and more importantly, you need to forgive.

Yom Kippur is the day where those of a Jewish faith ask for the forgiveness of God. The day before is Erev Yom Kippur, the day you ask for the forgiveness of your fellow man.

In the years that followed, you ask for the forgiveness from the ones you loved, yet hurt.

In the years that followed, you forgave and thanked the ones you hated, yet loved.

And then, one day, well, one day you look in the mirror and ask for his forgiveness.

One day you look into the mirror and you forgive him for all that he put you through…

And one day you look into the mirror and you thank him.

Because without him, you wouldn’t be who you are today.

-k

The Life of Radio Salesman

I sell air.

If you give me an hour of your time, I’m pretty sure, no, I’m positive I’ll convince you that the air you breathe isn’t nearly as valuable as the air I’m selling.

How do I know that?

Because the air I sell you contains language and harmony. The air I sell can make you think, make you informed, make you laugh, make you angry, make you aroused, make you intrigued, make you cry, make you wonder, and make you dream.

While your air gives you life, my air makes you feel alive.

Do I honestly believe all that is true? Truthfully, I’m indifferent.

For you see, all that matters is that I convince you.

When I’m done, you will be absolutely fucking convinced my air is the greatest goddamn thing that ever happened to your miserable life.

Don’t get me wrong, I used to face the world of tangible products, aka a coupon.

I then went toe to toe with narcissism and bad acting that is television.

Then fucking Stern goes to satellite.

But, yet, like spam, and I’m not talking about the emails for dick pills or your long lost Dominican uncle that was worth billions just died. I mean like the can of jelly coated fake ham.

Like that spam, we survive.

Wanna know why? Because we don’t cost shit.

That’s right.

Think about it. Radio is totally free.  While everyone thinks we’re archaic, or worthless.  Guess what? We are!  We’re old and trusted and we don’t cost you, the consumer a fucking dime.  Call your cable company now, if you have one, and tell them you’re going to cancel.  Don’t own the top package? No worries, they’ll give it to you for what you’re paying now. Go ahead, try…You’re welcome for your 3 free months of HBO.

And are you receiving Sirius mailers like their fucking Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons?  If you wait, they’ll pay you to listen.

Yet here we are in radio, in all our canned, slimy, pink glory.

Oh are we currently going at it with the “sexy” analytics that is digital? Yes. Why? Because, right now, analytics are to businesses what cocaine was to 1981 Miami Beach.

At least that’s what they’re being told.

Does anyone know what an impression is? No, I’m not talking the sweaty outline of your fat ass peeling your almost dead body off your yoga mat.  It’s when you see an ad. Or more than likely, don’t see an ad.  Think about the boxes on the right that show some donkey getting jacked…..think about the pair of shoes on your Facebook page, that you JUST looked at on the G.H. Bass website.  It’s called retargeting.  Did you buy or get pissed? I bet you in your subconscious you were not only annoyed, but creeped out.

In a world where paranoia and fear are as regular as those goddamn Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons,(I have enough to build a fucking lean-to) all digital advertising does is make you feel invaded. It doesn’t convince you to do jack shit.

And if it does, I ask you to dig a little deeper before making a decision.

You ever hear a funny radio commercial?

You did, didn’t you?

Of course, you did.

Ever laugh at a pair of shoes haunting your soul the next 24 times you go anywhere and everywhere on the World Wide Web?

Don’t you get it?

We like to be told stories.  We all do.  Whether through person, song, film, book, game, et cetera. Don’t believe me? What’s that book of stories that so many people read?

Oh yeah, the FUCKING BIBLE!

On radio. We tell you stories.

And we’re damn good at it.

Our stories can inform you, anger you, sadden you, and of course, humor you.

I leave you with this thought, I took statistics a couple times, so I’m going to say I have zero credibility on the subject. But you’re reading this, and that’s because I’m a good storyteller.   Or, a good bullshitter. Many will choose the latter and I am one of them.

Nonetheless, for my final project, I was to present something based on statistics, in, well, my 16th Century European History class! Goddamn, my A.D.D and repetitiveness get so fucking annoying.  Seriously, I’m the guy that has ham at Easter and talks the next 3 weeks about:

“Why don’t I eat more ham?”

Because, it’s fucking ham…

Anyway, I had this statistics project and  I did mine on the NFL QB Rating.  Wanna know how they compute the NFL QB Rating? No, you really don’t, but allow me to cut and paste:

Start with .095 and subtract interceptions divided by pass attempts. Divide that product by .04. To gain 2.375 in percentage of interceptions, a passer would have to go the entire season without an interception. Add the sum of 1-4, multiply by 100 and divide by 6

If you can figure that out, you’re an asshole.  And you may always be an asshole. So own it…being an asshole.

Anyway, during my presentation, I read what I plagiarized to the class, and then asked the class, what’s the one thing that is not represented in that entire equation?

…wait for it…

Heart.

I don’t mean the Wilson sisters.  Even though, I saw them live one summer and they fucking killed it. Best show of the summer. And I saw Phish, Motley Crue, and Journey that same year.

Ya, not them.

The one thing that we can’t measure in any Nasa nuclear quadratic, (by the way, I typed quadramatic. Thanks red squiggly line because I didn’t have a goddamn clue.)  formula that only can be understood by (stereotype) an Asian student at M.I.T?

It’s our heart.

Don’t be a douche and say and EKG. You know what I mean and you’re about to kill the moment and my momentum…

Not only does radio make your heart dance, your heart sing, your heart race and your heart gently weep, but we play Heart too!

Radio doesn’t try to predict your decisions…radio just helps your heart make them.

And the last time I checked, the best decisions I’ve made, you’ve made, we’ve all made…

Came from your heart…

 

Convinced?

-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

My Date (not online) With Destiny (not a stripper)!

Due to severe sleep deprivation, (severe is a little dramatic, but you’re reading a story about a guy’s self-help experience, so you know…) due to arctic like conditions that caused a contingency from Russia, fucking Russia, to dress head to toe in winter clothing, due to the first real nutrition I’ve consumed is in the form of a Jamba Juice smoothie at the Baltimore airport, due to feeling like I’m toeing the high wire hovering above full blown sickness from the aforementioned lack of sleep, frigid conditions, and diet…

This may be a little “scattered”.

Oh and I forgot to mention something; due to the fact I just spent six days and six nights at “Emotional Boot camp” where my mind, body, and spirit were broken down in ways I didn’t know existed. I again may be a little all over the place.

For the past five days I was journaling experiences with great ambiguity out of respect to those I came across…Out of respect to those I came across…We’ll get back to “those” momentarily, but first a little exposition.

Last November I attended my first and only other Tony Robbins Live Event/Seminar. It is the highly affordable and highly motivating Unleash the Power Within. If you’d like to read about my experiences there, you can do so by searching previous blog posts.  You know, the ones before I wrote about my online dating exploits.

Spac Profile Pic

When it was all said and done, the primary theme, for me, was we’re not alone. You’re not the only one that thinks that  you’re going crazy because you can’t stop thinking about this. You’re not the only one that feels so alone while experiencing that. And more than anything, you’re not the only one that wonders if this is all your life is ever going to be.

And the other thing about Unleash The Power Within, or UPW as us Robbins fans refer to it as, it’s an adrenaline shot to the spine that lasts a solid couple months. I mean for fucks sake, I was asked if I wanted to interview for a promotion the day after I got back to a job I was intensely contemplating whether or not I should submit my resignation.

Truthfully, when I got back from UPW, you could of dared me to dry hump a radio tower 150 feet in the air while wearing a leopard print thong and I would of said:

“YES!” Made my “move” and started the climb like a 5’6, not quite as hairy, King Kong.  Little Tony Robbins inside humor there.

So, with that, lets get to West Palm Beach.

Date With Destiny was introduced to not only the masses, but myself via the vehicle of Netflix. In the opening scene, we are introduced to the presence that is Tony Robbins.  The same guy that flashed a huge tooth smile with his massive cranium and his hair super glued in it’s part, hour after hour, after hour, after hour every morning and every night in the form of an informercial.  An informercial that used to drive me nuts when it came on at 4am because I was just about to “get off” while watching the latest Girls Gone Wild spot.

Why 4am?

Yet, when the “This is a Presentation of Guthy Renker” credit appeared, followed by this guy telling me how I could not only get wealthy, but live an amazing life like 3 time Pro Football Hall of Famer Fran Tarkenton; I had no idea how much he cared.

Tony-Robbins

I had no fucking clue that this guy cared, genuinely cared that much for his fellow man and woman. No clue. Not one goddamn clue. But there he was, telling this European with Red Shoes (Not Red Shoe Diaries, another thing I used to watch at 4am while…you know) how so many of us think our life is worthless because we had a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, a bad year. Yet, don’t realize how much we could accomplish in a decade.

That was the moment he got me.

This was followed by me Googling how much it would cost to go to said Date with Destiny.  Then I was backhanded harder than tennis ball hit by Andre Agassi with the thought:

“Holy fuck this is expensive!”

Then, well, then I went to the more affordable UPW.

And after UPW was done, after the willingness to fuck a radio tower was over, after I got the job promotion, I instantly signed up for the Super Bowl of self-help, my Date with Destiny.

And I almost fucked it all up.

Why? Because I’m an easily influenced douchebag when the one doing the influencing possesses an exquisite ass.

How? By calling my rep at the Tony Robbins Institute and requesting a refund.

She tried to talk me out of it, but I fought back.

“It’s too much money.”

“I want to use the money to go on a vacation with this girl I just stared to date.”

“Because I’m in love.”

Well, when you sign up for events of this nominal value and high in demand, they make you sign a pretty ironclad contract.

But, when I freak out, I freak the fuck out!

Clearly I didn’t need to go to something to strengthen my emotional state.

So, my rep looked into it…

Good thing it took a bit, because, well, the girl, the girl I was so in love with, broke up with me a week later.  Because she:

“Wasn’t feeling it…”

Peace bitch and your amazing ass.

I instantly called my rep and cancelled my request for refund.

Thank, God!

Little did I know WHY she broke things off with me.

However, I was just secured my seat to not only find out exactly why she did, but why I have always, as I put it, “sucked at relationships”.

Funny thing though, when I arrived in West Palm, I wasn’t ready for this shit.

Not even close.

For you see, when I landed in San Jose for UPW, I was taken to the hotel, dropped my bags off and then went straight to the event. All I was worried about was walking on hot fucking coals.

So you can say there was ZERO down time. There was zero time for me to think about what I was about to do. Now, in West Palm, I had a full day.

And what was I thinking?

I didn’t want to be there.

I was scared, legitimately scared. I barely slept that night. Which kinda sucked because  little did I know it would be the last “good night of sleep”  that I was going to for the next 6 nights.

Definition of good night of sleep during a Tony Robbins Event: More than 5 hours.

Definition of good night sleep during, well, life: At least 7 hours.

But, this was a perfect metaphor for changing our definitions in life. And that’s one, not the primary, but one major theme I walked away with:

Change your definitions.

What was the primary theme?

Well, when we registered we received a color and a number on our name tag. The opening night, we sat with our color.  The girl next to me, a beautiful young redhead was P-4. P stood for Purple.

And of course my mind raced as to why I was given the color purple.

What, did they think I was gay?

Feminine?

A pussy?

At least it wasn’t Pink…

Mr. Pink

For those that don’t know, we had to fill out a bunch of paper work prior to the event.  This will be relevant momentarily.

I was P-1. (In my mind: Pussy #1)  The seat next to her, the redhead,  well, after we switched, was a lady from Mexicali, Mexico that was forced to go by her husband of two years in an effort to save their marriage. And yeah, her English, not so much. Which is kind of critical when you’re told to share with the stranger sitting next to you. So her and I swapped partners, this is how the redhead landed next to me, because there was a beautiful young woman that sat two seats down from that not only spoke Spanish, she too was a P-1.

Little did I know who she was.

Little did she know who I was.

Little did either of us know what God had planned for us.

Author’s Note: You’ve heard me refer to God multiple times, and I will continue to do so.  Now, my faith is my faith, and I don’t care what yours is. I will simply say this, when we have something such as a God to believe in, then we can believe in ourselves, now can’t we? I’m a Catholic out of respect to those that I loved that are no longer here.  However, I could eviscerate the Catholic Church. No, not because there are priests from the same gene pool as Jerry Sandusky. But because, well, those reasons belong to me, just like my faith…See what I did there? 

Anyway, yeah, that night, that night we got separated into teams of 50 to 60 people. And that was the moment a man, an older man put his arm around me and told me that I was in the right place.

“Keith, do you know who Jeff Arch is?”

“No creepy old man with your arm around me at 2am.”

“Well, he wrote Sleepless in Seattle after his Date with Destiny.  You’re in the right place.”

He was my trainer Randy. And I adored that moment and I adore that man. And he obviously read the aforementioned material.

He informed us that we were “Team Phoenix” and wanted us to find a “buddy” to partner up with. I looked around and well, yeah, I’m a dude. Of course I wanted an attractive female partner.  It’s just my feminine energy that has long been radiating through me.  For those that don’t know me: My mom is a magnificent woman that taught me two things: 1) Work ethic and 2) How to shop.

And my desperation was permeating through my pores.  Until a smile, a beautiful smile looked at me. It was the aforementioned woman that sat two seats down from me.
This young woman was 30, from Ecuador, spoke perfect English, and was about to become one of the most important people I’ve ever met in my life.

20171210_130233.jpg

The days and nights that followed were filled with much laughter, many tears, and the occasional being spat on by Tony as he “intervened” with a woman that caused us to, well, lets just say be our “Away Value of Frustration.”

20171206_175404.jpg

We witnessed a couple find love, we witnessed suicidal people find the miracle in tomorrow, and we witnessed the person in the mirror change from a person who’s reflection we despised to a person we wanted to kiss.

We even witnessed the man, the warrior in us, kill the coward that didn’t want to come there.

 

 

For all of this and so much more, I thank you Tony Robbins for wanting to serve people like me.

Thank you for having an event that introduced me to stories that inspired me like a young black man that left a life of crime by selling everything he had to attend this event in efforts to change his life.

Thank you for having this “emotional boot camp” just to break me down so you could build me back up into a man I forgot I was. And the man I aspired to be.

And thank you for having an event that introduced me to a woman that was the perfect partner for 6 days and 6 nights that helped me discover the solutions to the problems that only existed in my head. All the while helping her discover that she IS strong enough for the life she chooses to live. She deserves to live!

While UPW motivated and showed us we’re not alone.  DWD (Not Down With Disease for you Phish fans) introduced me to the pure love humanity has to offer. It offered connections to the inspired and it offered connections to the inspiring. It is the Grad school for the dreamers that are willing to work for the dreams they covet.

Date with Destiny brought me to the place I’ve been dying to see:

A little place called Hope.

And that my friends, was the primary theme.

Mark Twain once said, “I’ve seen a lot of problems and only a fraction of them actually happened.”

Clearly he went to Date with Destiny.

And go fuck yourself if you come at me with, “You know Keith, Mark Twain lived in…”

Ya douche, I know….Way to kill the fucking moment.

-k