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!)
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…
Oh, and after she broke one of my two, fucking TWO rules I have for dating me:
- Don’t cheat on me (funny thing about that, and if you’re not aware, have you heard about my student film “Good Grief”?)
- 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:
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.)
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.
Because it is tomorrow.
Fucking heath bar…
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.