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 Netflix 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 what will happen immediately after.

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.

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.

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:


Be yourself.  Seriously, not everyone is comfortable about 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 that you’re not all that confident with yourself if you are doing this.

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 had 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.


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 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 but some piece of shit that is just like you. You will come across serial daters…

Spac Profile Pic

That 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 do.  So, what do they do? They take you for granted, take advantage of you, and 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.


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? You’re expectations grow to imaginable levels and they 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’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?


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!



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


Dating Diaries: Epilogue

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


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?



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. 2 Wait, you know who?

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

-Mark Twain


It’s a matter of time. It really is.

It’s inevitable that someone is going to come at me for these tales of promiscuous online behavior.  Wouldn’t be all that surprised if “GreenEyedSusan420” was waiting for me outside my office with an expandable baton…


It’s inevitable that ladies, and maybe even some sensitive dudes will call me either malevolent or sanctimonious or both for sharing these innocuous tales.

Like those big words?  Trying to not say fuck so much.  Got this app that teaches me big words to make my vocabulary bigger.  It’s great.

Truculence means the tendency to fight.

When the boss confronted Aaron about his earlier remarks, Aaron responded with utter truculence, simply throwing a glass of water in the boss’ face and walking away,  

Or if the “love interest” of this adventure and/or her friends just so happens to stumble across this post and deducted this is about her and I, well:

People from the birthplace of the U.S. Navy responded with utter truculence, simply holding Keith (that’s me) down and tweezering every hair out of his 50% Italian body and walking away satisfied…

“So, how did you meet?”

You ever see a couple truly in the most authentic form of love respond to this question?

Don’t get me wrong, I have friends that I used to drink beer balls of Bud with that would laugh and call these moments “gay”, “pathetic”, “whipped”, and of course, “aesthetic”…

Can that be used there? This app is most certainly going to cause this “Tourettes”  like behavior.  Except, instead of spewing out vulgarities, I will be blurting out 6 syllable words that I have no goddamn clue what they mean.

Anyway, the aforementioned couple, they gaze into each others eyes, almost as if they are portals into their past. Suddenly this almost out of body like moment happens, where they hover above their younger selves when they first crossed paths.

The smile they share is the definition of love.

Unless of course they met online and you hear:

“The grocery store.”

You will notice how they don’t even look at each other prior to. They only look dead into your eyes trying to convince you, as they are also trying to convince themselves, that this is the truth.

It may not be the case for all.  But when I recall this young lady, this if the first thing I think of.

To backtrack, at this moment in time, I had just moved out of my house, and all the paperwork had been filed for the divorce.

There were a couple failed dates between the time I met the most recent lady on a site called OkCupid.

No, it’s so much worse than it sounds, and it sounds pretty fucking awful.

Folks, this quite perplexing to describe.  Not because I’m having difficulty articulating the story.  If you think that is the case, then just go.

I hurt this girl.  I hurt her. Not like beat her.  I mean, if you think that is the case, then just go.

This is the ugly part of dating.  All the other stuff is shit.  It’s a distraction. It’s part of the process that is discovery.

This is the unpredictable nature of human behavior.  This is not knowing how you will respond to the situation until you are smack dab in the eye of it.

This is expecting one thing, and not only experiencing, but feeling to your core, the antithesis of it.

“You know who?”

You really want to know why people keep coming back to online dating, even though they continue to be subjected some of the worst that humanity has to offer?


Because there is a rush. A high.  Not like sucking on a can of Reddi-Whip…But seriously, when you meet someone whose look you dig-and to tell you the truth, there is something painfully attractive about the above, kidding (not kidding)-when you meet someone who you think, “I’d like to know what they smell like”…

Well folks, it’s kind of exhilarating.

And while you’re in the middle of a divorce, it’s also quite refreshing.  Looking back, I should have had a Fresca instead.  Zero calories, delicious, and thirst quenching.  So much better than dropping $80 on dinner with some gal you wouldn’t let your dead great grandmother meet. What do you do? You go home, see that some other woman you wouldn’t introduce to your other dead great grandmother just “winked” at you.  Imagine her being perfect while you whack off into the work sock that has a hole it the toe…

This one didn’t go like that.

When you first meet someone that has an equal amount of interest, the emails are flying.  Some are a few paragraphs, and unfortunately, some are, “lol”.

Now here is the thing, have you noticed that I have this innate ability to say quite a bit in a limited amount of time? I can write a paragraph in seconds.  Imagine me now excited about meeting someone attractive that I may have the opportunity to insert myself into.

I become a goddamn stenographer shotgunning Red Bull.

And what do I get back?


She can’t even capitalize the l. Which clearly would indicate a good laugh.  A loud laugh.  An actual fucking laugh.

She may even be jovial.

And no, there isn’t a chance as to what I wrote wasn’t funny. Hence the lower case l.  I’m really friggen funny.  You know it, I know it, and you can be sure as shit “lol” knows it too!

Nonetheless, there were a significant amount of emails.  There is no set amount of emails a couple must exceed to exchange phone numbers, but we got to that point rather quickly.

Reason being…She knew someone…

cute me and mom

For those that don’t know who that pulchritudinous lady is or the cute as fuck boy laying one on her…please just go.

And for those of you that may have noticed…yes, for every time I say fuck, I will use a grandiose word.

Next will be goddamn, just no fucking, unequivocal way is that happening today though.

So anyway, ya, she knew my ma. Which assured that this was going to end quite well…

Please Leave

If you’ve been following along with me, or am new to this, you know I retired from drinking and drugging some time ago.  Since then, I’ve had many of a night with a lady that has had anywhere from a glass of wine to being completely muckled after killing a box of Blush flavored Franzia.

Don’t judge me.

This lass had a tolerance though. I’m not saying this led to what you can imagine it led to, but it undoubtedly assisted.  The main culprit though, my insatiable thirst for feeling desired.  If you’ve been on the receiving end of a divorce, your empathy is infinite.

Nonetheless, that wasn’t an excuse.

For you see, afterward, even with the only light being the twilight coming from the bedroom window, you could see my mind was gone.  For you see, I do not possess a “poker face”.

poker face

I’ve only been married once.  So, to assume this is true for all would simply be conjecture and/or speculation; however, I’m going to throw the spaghetti against the wall and see if it sticks, sex with your husband or wife has to be pretty fucking good to marry them.


So, with that being said, the first person you enter other than your estranged wife, especially if you are the aforementioned recipient of divorce papers, doesn’t stand a goddamn chance.

And I was shortly told to:

“Please leave”.

The day and days that followed were a tipping point.  Within only a few short months, my psyche, my heart, and my soul had all been through war twice.  Both totally opposite in nature, yet the outcome was the same; I was eviscerated.

And here is the rub, the latter was worse than the former.

Yes, this was worse than my divorce.

Why? I didn’t hurt anyone in my divorce.  I was the lone casualty.  Well, I think Clover was pretty torn up too, but a can of wet food later and he’s probably good.


Whereas in the case of this latest online encounter, there were civilian casualties.

And her only mistake, her only mistake was finding me arrestingly handsome.

And if you’re reading this…

I hope you take this as the longest winded letter of apology in the history of long winds and apologies.

I have since atoned for my sins and I promise you that.

And I don’t know if you found me to be “arrestingly handsome” but…

Be alot cooler if you did

Because despite volume 1 and volume 2 being the definitions of stupidity and self-destruction…

I was about to experience first-hand the opposite end of a date with me…






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 Amazon.com 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 Match.com 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 match.com.  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 Pit of Despair, the World of Online Dating

In a world where you are desired, you are wanted, you are flooded with compliments about your smile, your eyes, your sense of humor; Only to find out your admirer  is a mother of four, could be an offensive lineman for the Jets, has 17 homemade tattoos on her tits,  and is a firm believer in her lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Which she has plenty of time to worship, since a job seems to interfere with that.

fat woman with tattoos


Welcome to online dating.

You ever notice when someone asks, “do you know what the definition of insanity is?”, you always answer yes; yet they continue to tell you it’s the act of doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

Fun Fact, you know the first time it ever appeared? Not Einstein, or Twain; Narcotics Anonymous!



Online dating is now the definition of insanity.

Everyday, you open the page either on your computer, tablet, and/or phone and expect to find something different. But there they are. The same people from yesterday, last week, last month, last year.  And here you are tomorrow, next week, next month, next year.

Whether it’s a free site: Plenty of Fish or OK Cupid. And I’ll let you guess what type of people parade and stalk said free sites.fat woman with tattoos

What makes it free is the ability to create a profile and email someone.  That’s it.  It’s having the ability to contact someone with an actual message.

As opposed to:

A site where you have to pay to contact someone: Match.com, EHarmony, Meet Mindful.

This helps somewhat weed out the sketchy ones.  However, once a day, someone that is breathtakingly beautiful, lets say her name Makayla, and she is:

29 years old



Doesn’t Drink

Doesn’t smoke

Doesn’t do drugs

Doesn’t have kids

Never been Married

Has a photo that makes her look like she was Miss Cambodia.  And who is she looking for you may ask? Well, guys between the ages of 40-75 years old, the height of 3’0 and 7’0, with any body types, and doesn’t care if you have a job, have kids, drink, smoke, do drugs, or live at home.

What a fucking catch right?  However, none of them can ever “afford the memberships”, which is totally justified given her standards. So, they leave their gmail address by writing: “Hit me up at, se7endirtysecrets at G AMall dot com” either on their pics or profile.  This profile usually has a shelf life of about 20 minutes.  Which is all the time they need to send you about 2 message, like all of your photos, and crush any hope you have for finding love.

One or many may ask, “why would they do that?” It’s typically a financial scam to get you to come to some site that probably has videos of donkeys getting sucked off by the aforementioned woman with the 17 tattoos on her tits, with her four kids watching, as she quotes scripture damning homosexuality.

fat woman with tattoos

Another may ask “who falls for this?” I don’t know, but like an old friend said to me about going around to every hot girl at Flubberbusters at 3am and seeing if they want to go home with him: It only takes one.

Lastly, the apps.  Now, the aforementioned sites all have apps.  But only some are purely app. based.  The one we all have heard of and should experience, Tinder.

There are other ones like Coffee Meets Bagel which tries to be “classy” and indiscreet about it.  Which means they are new and yet to be invaded by the mass amount of online predators.  Predators meaning serial daters. Spac Profile Pic


On Tinder, you either say yes or no to someone, we all have heard the term, “swipe right, or swipe left”.  All in search of our Tinderella. And if you say yes, and they say yes, then you communicate.

Yet, you must swipe through about 37 girls that wouldn’t live in Hudson Falls, travel through Hudson Falls, look up Hudson Falls, or care to ever know of Hudson Falls.

Adriana Lima

Pretty sure Andriana Lima isn’t sitting at Phat Chicks Diner on Main St. wondering who’s between the ages of 20-80, within a 5-mile radius of this quaint, blue-collar America town.

As opposed to:

fat woman with tattoos


And there are many, many, many others. That I choose not to go into for simple sake of pride.

Here is the root problem of online dating: It is the definition of insanity for many of us.  Why? Because Chris Rock said it best, “A man is only as faithful as his options.”  And when you are conversing with someone on a mechanism that provides multiple options that consist of the “unknown”, it is most assured to die before it ever has a chance of living.

Online dating causes you to abort the chance for potential.

I know that is a strong phrase, as I hope I’ve displayed some semblance of intelligence.  But, when you’ve participated in it, lived it, and am living currently through it; you really start to question yourself: Is it me? Why can’t I simply meet the right one?  Why does everyone I like, not like me back?

And even worse, why do the ones I don’t like, seem to be the ones that like me the most?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve met some absolutely esquisite, breathtaking, and amazing women.  Some have lived too far away. Some have had too many children for a 38-year old divorced man with a fitness and writing obsession…who owns a plant.

And some, and this is the most heartbreaking of them all, some have had either one or no child, and you think, you really think you’ve finally found them.  And then you realize that dating at this stage in life is fucking hard.

Why do these relationships fail?  Because one or both of us says: “I’m set in my ways”.

Really? Because I have a feeling that in about 40 years, I’m going to have to piss 40 times a night and won’t be able to eat sugar or salt.  So me being “set in my ways”, may require a bit of adjusting.

I don’t know if it is me.  But what I do know is that meeting someone online, unlike me, the opposite of me, isn’t going to be easy.  And meeting someone online that is like me, is going to be excruciating. For you see:

Variety is fun, yet dangerous.

Complacency is comfort, yet we never grow.

The unknown is frightening, yet a tease.

And being alone isn’t so bad, yet is so very lonely.

I don’t know if I will ever find “love” online, yet I will continue to try.

Why?  Because I’m insane?  Little bit.

Why? Because I’m bored? Little bit.

Why? Because I’m masochistic? Little bit.

Why? Because trying and failing is better than doing nothing at all?

You bet your sweet fucking ass.

And if you’re a female with an athletic or slender body frame, between the ages of 28-43, with zero to two kids; then look up Athletic Hippie on any of the sites mentioned above.  🙂