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…


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?


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:


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!


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?




Lana, the Horny Librarian on Tinder



Okay, so it took place between 4am and 5am, but that was the closest one I could find, so deal.  Oh and:


With that, lets begin.

Funny how our days can and will start the same way, but are never the same.  For me, I wake, check my emails and then check to see who has, and more often than not, who has not contacted me on  This is of course followed by me having to see who swiped right. (We will dive deeper into this in a bit, but first)

TINDER TALES: The story of Lana the Naughty Librarian. 

She looked innocent enough, real, (we’ll dive deeper into this in a bit), and had me laughing with excitement due to her creativity when I read her profile, which read as follows:


University of ACME, SUNY.

19 Miles Away

“Tind her?!? I barely know her…

Swipe right immediately if you often find yourself missing 3D Doritos

Dog lover/owner

Crazy to hot ration= within a desirable range.

Terrified of a Trump Presidency

Newly out of a torrid affair

MA in English, MS in Information studies. Typos make me swipe left.

I’m on here for the sport of it. I don’t really believe I’ll find my soul mate on Tinder…That’s what a paid account is for. :-p If there’s a dead fish or gun in your photos…no go. “

And she goes to Planet Fitness, which confirms she’s real. Because nobody “goes to Planet Fitness”. Why? Name another gym that has buckets of tootsie rolls at the counter as you walk-in and out? Exactly!

Anyway, she’s cute. Not gorgeous, not all dolled up to make herself feel a little better about her existence by taking god knows how many selfies in her car…



But she had pics with her dog, pics of a South Park “lookalike” of her, and one of her hiking.  This was some pretty legit shit.  So, of course I swiped right.

She had me at 3D Doritos.

Then, shockingly enough, we matched.

Authors notes here: For those that have no clue how Tinder works, first, we landed on the moon!  Second, for me, a girls picture will appear.  99.9% of the time it’s a pic of some model, from some country, that looks like a Kardashian or Beyonce.  No shit. If you swipe right to one of them, and we all have so go fist yourself with your pretentiousness. You more than likely will match.  From there, now you communicate.  Because on their phone is you, and if they swipe right, they like you, swipe left, no. No one knows.  You don’t know who swiped right (I guess you can now if you pay) but you don’t know who swiped left.  But you get a pretty good idea of when you see someone you know and they don’t live more than 10 miles away, and she doesn’t match with you after you just swiped right…  Yes, I’m talking to you, and YOU know who YOU are… All of you.  Anyway, the moment you both swipe right to each other, the communication lines are open.  And remember the Guatemalan Kim Kardashian I mentioned earlier? Well, she will instantly engage you with this dialogue that is programmed.  Very generic questions which will cause an automatic human response.  What do I mean?  “Hey, there, what’s your favorite tv show?” You answer The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and then what do you do? You ask them theirs.  So, boom, now she has an answer already pre-loaded and every fucking putz living in their mom’s attic is giving himself “The Stranger” to the prospect of meeting Asian Mariah Carey.


Asian Mariah Carey

This wasn’t one of those.

Instead, I commented how hysterical her profile was and asked what she directed? She revealed that she was a librarian in town for a conference in Toga. She was staying at this crappy motel, and lived a couple hours downstate.  However, she did indicate she lived here for about a year and a half.  I have no clue why she mentioned it, but she did.  While I wondered why she said that with thoughts that she would relocate here if she met the right guy? On Tinder? Well, those daydreams didn’t last long because her mercurial nature presented itself in a, well, excited manner:

“Whatcha doin here!”

Of course, I had to make some idiotic, douchebag, clever “move”:

“What am I doing here? Is that on a deep, existential level or Tinder?” Wink smiley face, hi, I’m a desperate asshole.

The things we do when we think we’re so goddamn suave.

However, her response is when things, as they say in the movie biz, “took a turn”.  I don’t know if they say that in the movie business.

“Do you want to come and playfully make me cum?”

Now, I’m not going to lie, yes…Yes I did.  And if you saw her, you would too. Nonetheless, it’s 4:30 in the AM.  Oh by the way, I did ask her earlier if she too was a victim of daylight savings? I’m such a fucking asshole.

My retort? I let out one of those comic book villain laughs of “HA!”

Then she told me she had toys and wanted me…Anyway, yeah, we had some bi-polar back and forth for a bit. The “Pit of Despair” is my soul.   She told me she was drinking, bored, lonely, and horny.  Your mind flutters and flaps like a flag atop Yankee Stadium in September. It races from one sexual daydream to the reality that this is fucking crazy.  And honestly, it’s mental fun.  Why? Because, and I hope this was the case, her mind was having fun too.  Almost therapeutically being someone else.  A character in a late night in Cinemax movie.  Where this mysterious stranger that drives a 50’s muscle car and has a three day old beard, comes to the hotel room of the runaway bride looking to explore her deepest, forbidden sexual desires… As long as I bring polyurethane condoms and not latex because she is apparently allergic.

Authors note: Imagine finding out you’re allergic to latex from wearing a condom, or being the recipient of said condom?  I’d rather have my eyes taped wide open and forced to watch every episode of “The View”. That is NOT MISOGYNISTIC. It’s called having good taste.

Remember how I mentioned the mercurial nature of this “young lady”? Well, she would be engaging, on a human level.  Which was the funny part. For example, her auto-correct was fucking with her, so she had a very “Keith Hannigan” like meltdown about it.




Goddamn it I’m trying to write intelligent!”

Yeah, you could see how I was drawn to her.  Until, well, then:

“I have to warn you I have bruises.  My Semi-boyfriend for the last three years kicked the hell our ( not a typo, just keeping it real) of me last week. In places people wouldn’t see.  run”

The lower case “run” creeped me the fuck out!  In that whole little “revelation”, it was “run” which set me off.

Before I could “run”, or address said “run”,

“Now, come play with me now”

Authors note: Yes, this was in response to my question of “When do you want to do this?”…By all means, judge.

As interesting and exciting as this was first thing in the morning, it wasn’t my “first rodeo” with this type of dialogue. For you see, I’ve been the recipient of  someone making an outlandish statement, such as this, on my overly eager Tinder screen.  One time a girl told me she had HIV. True story. And no, I did NOT entertain her by saying, “That’s cool, if it’s not full blown AIDS, we can work around that.”

Nonetheless, this morning, my patience was dissipating, and I needed to eat breakfast before I went for my run. So, I cut to the chase.

I asked her if she was having fun? Which was followed by me telling her to Twitter her Yahoo using one of her toys while watching some late night HBO.

Her response was obvious, as it was about how I was making a mistake and how attentive her oral would be.

But what followed next, well, she wrote:

“This is my life”

That is the moment I realized I needed to sit down and start writing about this.

What we must wonder, in a case such as this, who exactly is the person on the other end of that phone?

It can be anyone from a guy in Zimbabwe trying to relieve me of my burdening bank account.

It can a couple of teenage guys that have done more blow than their parents can afford on a Wednesday night. Possibly trying to fuck with a girl they both what to have sex with but lack the intellect or maturity to attract her.  So, instead, they will make her life an eternal hell.

Or, and this what I think it is, the sad loneliness that many of us feel yet have no idea of how to escape. Instead, we choose to become something that is fictitious.  Someone or thing that you only read about or see in a movie.  A person trying to entertain themselves because life just doesn’t fill that empty hole.

I genuinely don’t know. All I do know is, I’m going to find out.  Because you can be sure as shit I followed up with:

“Don’t go, I want you to tell me what you mean, this is my life”?


I Saw a Motorcycle for Sale…

I saw a motorcycle for sale on my walk today.

The fog made it quite ominous while I walked. So much so, the fog was straight from a movie called, well…”The Fog”. It was the type of fog that the orange hue coming from a streetlight didn’t necessarily cut through the fog, as much as it just confirmed the fact as to how foggy it was.  As if there was a detective off somewhere wearing a trench-coat with a Winston hanging from the down pitched  corner of his mouth.  As he awaited to present his client, Annabelle 8×10 photos confirming her suspicions of her husbands infidelity.

I saw a motorcycle for sale on my walk today.

I don’t know what kind; A harley? It wasn’t a Harley, I don’t think it was a Harley.  Truthfully it could have been a Harley.  Maybe a Yamaha, or a Kawasaki.

Kawasaki sounds like a hybrid Japanese/Polish-American baseball player.

Catcher Paul Kawasaki, has power to all fields. Yet, the speed to get down the line and leg out and infield single with his slap like swing while he protects the plate on a two strike count.

It may have been a Kawasaki.  Or a Honda.  Definitely not a Suzuki.  That’s all the names of motorcycles I know.  It wasn’t the one with the sidecar I could fit into either.

I saw a motorcycle for sale on my walk today.

Why?  I imagine this was a man, probably a man, that wanted it more than he’s ever wanted anything.  You know that feeling?  I do. But I’m afflicted with some degree of OCD.  Not so bad that I have to tap my pencil 9 times, and spin my chair counter clockwise twice in my office before I start my work day.  Who has a pencil?

But my affliction causes great angst if I covet something and don’t have the means or even worse, I’m afraid it will go on sale right after I buy it.
I obsess, non-stop, google search after google search. Running into Target to look at it, mustering up the courage to ask the part-time kid named Chet if I can touch it.

He gives me an odd look after I word it that way.

But after all that, I buy it, just for me to feel empty inside after I finally have it.  Funny how the chase is always greater than the capture.  It also mean that we all need something to covet, to desire, to want, to need.

Or it may be because the thing just wasn’t nearly as nice as my imagination made it out to be.

I saw a motorcycle for sale on my walk today.

This man probably saved every cent he had, dying for the moment he could ride his “hog” cross-country with his friend visiting every bbq smokehouse on their way to the Pacific Coast. Unfortunately his nights of drunken sex would eventually impregnate the only girl that would sleep with him and now he’s a dad. The pause button was pressed on his cross country trek. He thought, maybe a year, two tops.  Little did he know it would be forever.

I saw a motorcycle for sale on my walk today.

Night after night, he comes home wondering if he should take it for a ride.  But the days of mindless labor while all he thinks about is how much he hates what is waiting for him when he gets home; those become exhausting.  That’s why he stops by the local Speedway and grabs a 12 pack of Keystone and a lottery ticket before he walks through his equally miserable wife.

She yells:
“Why don’t you sell that goddamn motorcycle?”

He barges out, going to the bar and stares at women he wishes he could have.  He wishes they had lost all taste in and inhibition in life just so they would give him  a chance to stick his filthy, uncircumcised, smelly penis in them.  Instead, he drinks, and drinks, until he drunkenly drives home and tries to get it up and have sex with his disinterested wife while dreaming of the girl in the white jeans playing pool at the bar he just left.

I saw a motorcycle for sale today…

Or, he may just buying a brand new fucking bike…


Dating Diaries: Vol 3. “Are you crying?”

“Crying is alright in its way while it lasts.  But you’ll have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.”
-C.S. Lewis

As these magnificent, albeit, self-exposing tales of one man in Glens Falls, NY and his online dating experiences come to an end-Sorry the few of you that truly enjoy these, but this is only a “triology”-I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for taking the time and I not only mean that from the bottom, top, left, right, front and back of my heart; I hope you’ve enjoyed reading them.

With that, I’ve saved the best for last, so…

In the time between the unfortunate victim from Vol. 2 and this “glorious night”; I had a couple other encounters that deserve “Honorable Mentions”.

Such as:

The gorgeous hippie girl I scared away because it was way too early for me to start dating.  I was like Jo Jo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet…

The gorgeous mulatto teacher that I scared away because it was way too early for me to start dating. This sucked, because she pursued me!  Can you believe that?  And of course, I fucked it up.  Not as bad as Mikey in Swingers with the girls phone number, but definitely a contender for “What not to do with a prospect”.

This led to an epiphany, a moment of clarity, if you will. I needed two things:

  1.  A serious respite from online dating
  2. Guilt free, no strings attached sex.

What followed was a trip to the Nation’s Capital that was full of sightseeing, shopping and sensational, sinful, sex. Well, up to the point a bag of cashews from Whole Foods gave me paint peeling gas.  That goddamn, gorgeous Westin room became Auschwitz.

And no, you will never, ever, hear me say sightseeing, shopping, and sensational, sinful, sex.

Yes, I’m fully aware of the similarities.

Anywho, on the flight back, which consisted of prayers that my salmon couldn’t make their way to Capistrano (think about it) or herpes; I made a conscious decision that I got all this “needing affirmation” hogwash out of my system and it’s time to proceed with my life.

And you can be sure as shit that vanished the moment my plane hit the tarmac. Because you know, now I stank of sex,  so confidence was riding high. Surprised I didn’t develop carpel tunnel from swiping right…

What followed was:

The Christian that thought my Himalayan salt lamp was akin to witchcraft.  No shit. She was pretty hot though.

The rabid cat I got attacked by. And yes, I literally got attacked by a cat with rabies.  She was pretty hot though.

The feminist that would call to yell at me about Donald Trump and show up to every single date an hour late.  She was pretty hot though.

The hippie-ish chick that would come over to my place with her massive dog, despite my place not allowing pets, and then drink half a bottle of wine every night. She was pretty hot though.

Sprinkled amongst all of these were one-time encounters that were doomed from the start.  And of course,  the occasional make-out session.

And there was one…I liked her, a lot.  Beautiful, funny, quirky, strange, bright,  sanely crazy, hardworking; And of course she lived 3 and a half hours away.

No matter the variety of flavors I attracted, there was one common denominator:

Spac Profile Pic

I have to tell you cats and kittens, I had the pleasure of meeting some quite spectacular women that knew they were too good for me.  And I also went out with some that were train wrecks colliding with a school bus filled with Special Ed students.  Despite that pleasant image, I still had to see if they would be a “buyer” in the stock that was Keith T. Hannigan.

Is it the natural douchiness that is me? Probably.

Is it the natural salesman in me? Probably.

Is it my insecurity needing to be extinguished? Probably

Is it loneliness? Probably.

However, who the fuck am I to dare try and manipulate the emotions of another human being, all the while seizing the opportunity of feeding the beast that is my ego?

Well, I believe there is a God, and I believe she placed the next subject of this here blog in front of me to teach me the most invaluable of lessons:

To grow the fuck up!

The Stupid Genius

I don’t know this as fact, but I’m pretty sure even Einstein smacked himself in the head every once in a while and exclaimed:

“I’m such a fucking idiot!”

Whether this is the first post of mine you’ve read, or for some god-awful, masochistic  reason, you’ve made the commitment to read them all; you would gather that I’ve acquired some form of expertise on the subject of online dating over the years…

Well, I made good and goddamn sure to throw it right out the fucking window.

I first met her, the aforementioned female suitor and subject of this blog, on Plenty of Fish. Allow me (you don’t have to, but you’re here, so you know) to paint the portrait for you that is, as we refer to it as,  POF.

Back in the day, my friends and I used to joke about how attractive a woman was by saying the name of the establishment where our spirits were consumed and then giving a time.

For example:

“She was 8pm at Sabby’s hot.”

Translation: a fine looking lady that if you brought home to mom and dad, even mom would give you a fist bump.

Needless to say, I didn’t have many, meaning any of those.


“She was 2am at Jilly’s hot.”

Translation: When tomorrow morning comes, I more than likely am going to try to sneak out, Mission Impossible meets Naked Gun style, without waking her while trying not to step in her cats litter box.  Which for some, who the fuck knows, reason is next to her bed.

Needless to say, I was much more successful with those specimens just looking for love in all the short places.

fat woman with tattoos

AUTHORS NOTE: If the dream is realized and my tantalizing tales make their way to the masses; the above is going to find me, and smother me with her gargantuan, hairy, tattooed tits.

And then there was Flubb’s.

Flubb’s was a bar that was right across the border of Vermont in New York State that was open until 4am on a Saturday.  Simply put, when you’re losing friends drunk, yet wide awake at 1am in Rutland, VT and they just called last call…well…Lets just say I was quite familiar with this establishment.


Yet here I am, 15 years later, and still making the same goddamn mistakes. Because the point of all this; Plenty of Fish, while providing the occasional 8pm lady at Sabby’s, the mass majority is somewhere between 2am at Jilly’s and 4am at Flubbs.

Why is it like this?

Because it’s free.

Why do I use it?

Because it’s free.

And this is where I met the “love interest” to this far from romantic evening, a woman we will only refer to as:

“The Cryer.”

“I’ve been crying all day”

When the divorce was on the one yard line to being euthanized,  I remember saying, like it was my personal mantra, “You can’t see red flags while wearing rose-colored lenses.”

Processed with VSCOcam

I said it so often, it was as if  I was Confucius with this amazingly clever, yet accurate fortune cookie of wisdom.

Clearly, I was on the one yard line to completely losing my shit.

So, when an attractive woman that just so happens to be around the block from your place of employment hits you up on “PoF”; you instantly reply.

For you see, the ones I kept falling for kept living too far away.

And when said woman describes, in detail, how her job causes her to cry from the moment she first punches in to lunch, all throughout lunch, and then from the end of lunch to the moment she punches out, well…One, more than likely, would be inclined to run…

Especially when this happens within the first, I don’t know, two, maybe it was the third email.  However, I was somewhat culpable, I did ask the intrusive question of:

“What do you do for a living?”

Full transparency, I did break off communication for a bit, I’m not completely an idiot, but then came the pre-stranger email.

If you’re not familiar with “The Stranger”, allow me to explain.

Other than being a fantastic Billy Joel song; it’s when you sit on your hand until it goes numb so when you rub one out, masturbate, it feels as if it’s someone else.

You’re welcome.

Well, I will take this one step further.  Have you ever been so horny that you start to “reminisce” about an ex? Just to hit them up only to remember why they were your ex?

Well, in the case of online dating,  you find yourself fantasizing about the lady you knew good and goddamn well you shouldn’t talk to.

Well, before you know it you throw out a little text:

“Hey, what u doin?”

They respond. with a:


Oh how telling yet frightening an exclamation point can be.

Your response is the oh so leading:

“Just thinking about you.”

I don’t know how fluid the definition of imbecile is, but at this moment, it’s this.

Before she has a chance to respond, you quickly go for what you’re really looking for:

“Send me a pic…please”

The please is crucial.  Sometimes you throw in a wink, or a wink with the tongue hanging out. You hear nothing for a few minutes.  Deep down, you know it’s because she has taken 37 selfies trying to capture  the right one, just for you.  Then what do you receive?

A picture that she already has on her profile. But at this point, who fucking cares? The blood flow is coming  back in my hand, so it’s go time!

You’re inspired, so you send back.

“You’re so exquisitely breathtaking”

I’m such a fucking asshole…

One minute and seven seconds later… Mission accomplished…But then…


My phone has just decided to become the goddamn ice cream man! Instead, it’s a flurry of messages, or in the case of “The Cryer”, one really long message that is so long in length, it needs 7 messages to send.

Oh sweet Jesus what have I done?

And as if that wasn’t a big enough of a pain in my ass, which I deserved, I have this horrible conscience. Piss off, I do! The guilt is as if I just had a one night stand and I now have to feed her.  You realize that? Either we precede or  reward sex with food. Simply,  I either have to feed you to get it, or feed you for giving it.

Nonetheless, here I am, cloaked in guilt.  All because I couldn’t watch lesbian porn on my laptop.

“What are you doing Friday?” I reluctantly ask.

And we now have a new contender for the definition of imbecile.

The Date

My profession provides me many perks.  One being that I don’t have to always pay for dinner on some of my “dates”.  Long story, but lets just say if I want the occasional free dinner, I have that option available to me.

And you can bet your sweet ass I wasn’t paying a fucking dime for this night.

Now, here is the deal, ladies, you’re notoriously late for everything.  You know it, I know it, and Father Time knows it. Hence why it’s called Father time and not Mother time.

Yet, this lady was not only early, she was early enough to buy herself an adult beverage:

“I’m so sorry for being late. To be fair, I’m actually on time, but you’re early, which scores some serious Super Mario Gold Coins with me.” I said this with not only charm, but my ohh so arrestingly handsome smile.


“Well, I ordered an IPA and they only had blah, blah, blah IPA, so I’m stuck with this.  I don’t even like this. I hate it. It’s awful.  I don’t even know why I’m drinking it.”

Mother of God…

“Well, why don’t you tell them? I’m sure they’d be more than happy to provide you another drink. And who knows, maybe they will thank you for your insight.”

I’m a glass half full type of guy. Thanks Tony Robbins!

“Oh not even worth it, they’ll probably spit in it.”

And we’re off.

Now, I’ve been to this establishment numerous times.  When food is free, you traditionally find yourself suggesting it quite often.  So, to hand me a menu is a moot point.  Sometimes, you try to be impressive with your knowledge of this type of cuisine:

“You know the sashimi here is out of this world. The way they prepare the eel is unlike any other place between here and the Capital Region. And I highly suggest the Spicy Tuna Lettuce wraps as it’s the perfect amount of spice with the fresh crunch of the lettuce to cleanse the pallet.”

And other times you just want to get the goddamn food ordered.

Guess which time this was. And of course the waitress was no where to be found…

Now, I remember the first time I heard the word loquacious.  My ears perked up.  I don’t recall if it was because the word used the letter q or if it was a word that best described me:

Loquacious: talking or tending to talk much or freely; talkative; chattering; babbling; garrulous:

“So, what do you do for fun?”

Silence kills me.

“I couldn’t tell you the last time I did something fun.”

Silence no longer kills me.

“Okay, well do you like to go hiking or anything like that?”

“Oh, yeah, the last time I went hiking (sips her beer), the last time, I was passed by this old lady who had to be 80…”

Stick with me here.  One day, years ago, I was asked by a former professor to speak to his class about being in radio.  During this class, while I’m in the middle of a sentence describing the nuances of radio advertising, this…kid…in the front row stared me dead in the eye and let out the longest, strangest sounding fart ever…


On this night, after describing this “horrific and traumatizing” hiking experience, she looked me dead in the eye and started to dab them with a napkin.

“Are you crying?” I questioned, with my oh so amazing poker face…

poker face

She sniffled while maintaining full eye contact. Which I still find to be so goddamn creepy.

“Over hiking?”

She sniffled again and the tears started to FLOW.  Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for my water with lemon!

But, here was the thing, if you were to load me up with Sodium Pentothal,  I’m looking at her thinking, ” You know, she’s not THAT bad looking, not bad looking at all.”

And she wasn’t, she actually was quite pretty.  My instinct, you guessed it, lets see how quick I can close this…

And as soon as I had that thought…

“Is the air conditioning on in here? Seriously, there has to be a vent above me with the air conditioning on!”

Not only was it February in upstate New York, there was no goddamn vent!

At this point, I’m about to put an Amber alert out for my waitress.  But I see her, she sees me, I make eye contact and give off the whole, “We’re ready to order so get your ass over here” look.

And how did ordering go?

“I don’t know, what do you have?

The menu is the size of a coffee table…with two sides…and pictures…

“Is it the chicken spicy?”

It’s not only noted on the menu with a goddamn picture of a  jalapeno pepper, but with the word “Spicy” next to it just in case you were confused as to what the significance of the aforementioned pepper was.

“Well, I want something that tastes like garlic chicken.”

“Well, we have garlic chicken.”

Oh God bless the patient heart of our waitress that night.

“But does it come in a sauce, I don’t like sauce…and why is your air conditioning on?”

“Umm, it does come in a sauce, a garlic sauce, and our air conditioning isn’t on.”

“Well, then I don’t want it and yes it is…”

By the way, all of this, no shit, really happened.

“Well, would you like to move to the tatami seating area?”

I don’t know if I yelled yes, or simply said it, but understand this; if you’ve never sat in a tatami seating area, it’s the drop down seating area that is tucked away from everybody!

So we packed up and moved, hoping the change of scenery may “lighten the mood”.

It didn’t.

The remainder of the night included:

More alcohol, which led to more tears, which led to her becoming quite pale, which led to  very little eating, which led to her becoming even more pale, which led to more crying, which led to her telling me that she was about to be fired from her job because she was currently serving probation for…you guessed it, CRYING ALL THE FUCKING TIME!

The final straw for me was the moment the waitress came back to see if we wanted dessert. And you guessed it, my lovely date was balling her eyes out like I either told her that I was cheating on her, about to beat her, or both.

Why was it the final straw? Because they had S’mores flavored Molten Lava Cake and I couldn’t have it because my date was acting like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias having a diabetic fucking fit!

When we finally left, the snow that was coming from the sky were flakes the size of frogs.  As if God was raining upon me a sign, a sign that this shit needs to stop.

For you see, years, months, weeks, and even days earlier, despite all of what this night entailed; I would have kissed her. And I know she would have been receptive to it.

Instead, I kissed her on the cheek and simply said:

“Good luck.”

And I meant it.  Because, even though I’ve been making light out of this entire night, this girl doesn’t have issues, she has a lifetime subscription.  And despite the fact that I feel I can fix anybody (Thanks again Tony Robbins), I know I can’t.  Did I spend time trying to be a glimmer of hope in the endless cave that is her existence?  Yes.  But what this girl needs is something I cannot give her, serious psychological attention.

And I truly hope she finds whatever it is she needs, because, and this is the truth, I felt as if I let her down.


As I was about to post Volume 2, I stumbled across the Mark Twain quote:

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

As if this was a fortune cookie provided to me by God.


Is it because I was attacked by a rabid cat? Maybe

Is it because in spite of having a failed marriage with a woman I met through online dating, I continue to go back for more? Maybe.

Is it because no matter how much a lady and I are or are not a match, I continually try to see if I can persuade them emotionally to take a chance on me just for it to inevitably? Maybe.

Or is it because, throughout all of this, I’ve learned a lesson that one must learn if they are to ever find what they are looking for:

You must first find it within yourself before you can demand it from others.

What is it?  No, it’s not the skill of sitting on your hand, which many of you are going to, or at least should try once you’re done reading this. And yes, every time I hear “The Stranger” on the radio, I smile…

It’s love. (Vomit)

So will I continue to subject myself, and in many cases, subject those that show a sign of interest in me to nights such as this?



Because deep down, I’m still hopeful that I will meet the lady that makes me smile while I think about how much I miss her.  Because deep down I’m still hopeful I will meet the lady that whether it’s the first, third, or fiftieth time I see her, she makes my heart race and my palms sweat.

Will it happen?

Fuck me if I know.

The only thing I do know is:

To be continued…And thanks for playing…









Dating Diaries: Vol.1 The Therapist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like that happens anymore.

fat dude at gym

But that’s not all of them.

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



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

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


But, how exactly did we get there?

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

fat woman with tattoos

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

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

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

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

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

Why isn’t that funny?

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

Spac Profile Pic

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

A psychologist…okay… But damn she looked delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So fuck you! Be jealous.

She couldn’t have given two shits.

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

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

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

“How much worse could it get?”

Much worse, so…much…worse…

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

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

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

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

Online Dating







The Art of Nothing: Long Weekends in Solitude.

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

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

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

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

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

Spac Profile Pic


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

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

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

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

What is nothing?

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

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

I mean, cleaning your place.  Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Totally went six degrees of Kevin Bacon on that shit.

The Art of Doing Nothing

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

“Hey what did you do this weekend Mike?”

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

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

Okay, a few things:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spac Profile Pic

Just love the shit out of it.

What’s the difference between nothing and something?

I guess loving it.

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

I do love that plant though.





The Struggle is Real: The insecure narcassism of a writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thought crossed my mind…twice.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

And we wonder how this happened:


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

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

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

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

Writing is getting a little easier.