Tag Archives: #onlinedating

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

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

This may be a little “scattered”.

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

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

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

Spac Profile Pic

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why 4am?

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


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

That was the moment he got me.

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

“Holy fuck this is expensive!”

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

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

And I almost fucked it all up.

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

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

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

“It’s too much money.”

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

“Because I’m in love.”

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

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

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

So, my rep looked into it…

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

“Wasn’t feeling it…”

Peace bitch and your amazing ass.

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

Thank, God!

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

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

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

Not even close.

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

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

And what was I thinking?

I didn’t want to be there.

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

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

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

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

Change your definitions.

What was the primary theme?

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

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

What, did they think I was gay?


A pussy?

At least it wasn’t Pink…

Mr. Pink

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

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

Little did I know who she was.

Little did she know who I was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

A little place called Hope.

And that my friends, was the primary theme.

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

Clearly he went to Date with Destiny.

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

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





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 match.com.  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 Match.com 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”?


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







Tales of a Leaky Ass: An Ode to Opie

You ever notice how your day can be determined by whether or not you take a crap?  Am I the only one that thinks, “How in the hell is it possible that with all I stuffed into my body yesterday, it doesn’t say, ‘Ya, I need to get this shit out of me'”?

And only then, I start to accept the fact I’m going to suffer a 24-hour constipation, I think: “Do I need water? Maybe I need coffee? Maybe I need almonds, cashews, or beets. Ya beets.” And then after 6 hours of drinking:  3 glasses of water, 2 cups of black coffee, and eating to the point of bloating; I accept the fact:

Today’s going to really suck. (*Not as much as WordPress. So, if you notice what appears to be the exact same sentence back to back, I noticed it too.)

I accept it.

Accepting the fact you will more than likely never be a dad isn’t as easy.

I’m 39 years-old, I like my independence, and paying off debt without a family to support is already hard enough. Unless of course, I come across a young lady in her early to mid 20’s that is dying to be a mom and hopefully has “Daddy Issues”…

But, if that sounds like you, hop on Tinder and do a search radius of 12803 for 39 year-olds.

Spac Profile Pic

I may never know what it feels like to watch an infant take its first steps into a childhood, then grow into a teen, then stop growing as an adult because it’s my child, and then, well, rely on them to help me take a piss because my prostate is the size of a Panera Bread Bagel.

I may never know how it feels to bear witness to a full life being lived as my son or daughter while passing along my name.

With that, I may never taste the delicious splendor of waking up 13 times in the middle of the night. What for? The gift of a diaper filled with human shit at 3am.

You know, and for those of you that don’t; my name is Keith Hannigan, I’m a recovering alcoholic and drug addict, and I say that to say this: I have woken up next to some disgusting things, people, and people like things.

fat woman with tattoos

AND, I’m also a guy that defecated himself the first time he got like, drunk, like hammered drunk.

Do you know what that’s like? Do you know what’s it like to wake up to a pillow of poo in your pants? Do you?

I do.

But to wake up every night, to a screaming, not crying, screaming child, only to see how big and disgusting of a dump they took…

And that’s just the start!  Because this is followed by:

The “terrible two’s”, to back to school shopping,  to your kid has a friend that you hoped wouldn’t become friends because you know and despise their parents, to pre-teen, to teens, to teenage sex, to college kid, to a fat, alcoholic, college kid that experimented with her roommate Alex, and Alex is a her, to living back at home because they got hit with so much student debt and I’m sure as shit not paying for because I’m still paying for my own goddamn student debt, to never leaving home, to finally leaving home and missing them, to having to pay for a wedding…

You notice how this paragraph is bigger, much bigger than its predecessor?

I may never get to experience any of that.

Instead, well, instead I had Opie.

Funny thing about Opie, he was a gift to my brother that I tried to steal the affection of.

Kind of like an afterschool special where a brother tries to steal his brothers’ girlfriend.

Well, instead I tried to steal my brothers’ dachshund, and I did that by getting stoned and feeding him ice cream.

I would make two ice cream cones every night.  One for me, one for Opie.  We would sit on our bed watching the West Wing for the 53rd time. All the while, holding my arm out as we both licked away.  I with my cone, he with his.

Ever hear a dog with an ice cream headache?  It’s sad yet hysterical.  He licks non-stop while whining.  You want to stop him, but good luck.

We lost Opie this past July 20th.  He just turned 15.  And it’s taken me to August 31st to finally be comfortable enough to write this.

For you see, I would sob, uncontrollably sob as I wrote. What I wrote could have had been addressed “Dear Diary.”

That’s not telling a story paying homage, that’s mourning. Instead, let me tell the tale of one of the greatest loves of my life.

The Mt. Rushmore of loves, if you will.  Right in between Deana and Hulk Hogan.

The Arrival

If you did the math, you would have figured out that Opie came here 15 years ago.  If not, you’re a moron and stop reading.

If you know me, or can do 2nd-grade math, you would know I was 15 years younger than I am now.  I’m a freshly blossomed 39, so that would have made me 24 back then.

If you know me,  you would realize that I really sucked at life back then.  I would have these whiffs of something special, and then I would instantly block up my nostrils making sure to lose the scent.


My brother was only 16 at the time and he was doing much better than I at his age.   At 16, he was playing sports and studying. At 16 I was going to Grateful Dead and Phish concerts.

But hey, I can say I know what a port-o-potty looks and more importantly smells like at a concert with 100,000 plus hippies, bikers, and god knows any other human that loved drugs on a hot June night. Can he?

Nonetheless, you can see why one of us got a dog at 16 and the other one didn’t.

Opie came from a litter named after, you guessed it, the Andy Griffith Show.  And because Opie was the cute kid, Opie got named… well, fucking Mitch.

I hate how I write sometimes and I get so goddamn redundant.  And vulgar. Congratulations for reading this, these are the moments where I think:

“You know, I could pull off bipolar.”

Point being, Opie was that damn cute.  Don’t believe me? Thinking to yourself that:

“My Precious was gorgeous. So ,kiss my ass Keith Hannigan. I’m going to tell my friends on Okplentyofmatch.com that you suck!”

Well, eat this SexySparrow420!

Standing Opie


This just got difficult.

Opie.  It wasn’t until he was 5 or 6 when I was immersed in his presence.  If you were to Google that line, immersed in his presence, I’m sure you would find those speaking about how omnipresent God is in their lives.

How God changed their life.

Is it fair to say Opie changed my life?

You bet your sweet ass he did.

Remember the sucking at life Keith I described earlier? Well, he morphed into chubby, panic and/or anxiety attack having, moved back home, defaulted on 5 years worth of student loans while only having an Associates, sober, Keith.

In all of those adjectives, I used to describe the latter incarnation of myself, nothing about what I was addicted to at the time.  That’s impossible for me. For you see, it’s been that way, since, well, conception.

Seriously. I guarantee I was addicted to something in the womb.

Betcha mom was sucking down the Winstons back then.

Well, it started with toys, Transformers especially, then “Pro” wrestling, then baseball cards, then drugs, then Phish tapes, then booze, then drugs and booze, then drugs, booze, and women, then women…And that leads me to Opie.

I could probably make a case that I became very, very ill during each of these addicted “stages”. And the last one, the women, well, I will just ask this: Do you know how it feels to wake up in the middle of the night with your pecker burning while covered in scabs?

No worries, I got you; It’s not very fucking pleasant.

So, when I moved back home, shamefully moved back home, I found my new addiction:Adorable Opie

If you were my Facebook friend back then, you can attest to seeing a plethora of pics of him. That, or you are no longer my Facebook friend because you can attest to seeing a plethora of pics of him.

I  fell in love the moment I first woke up next to him. Lift up the blanket, he’d pop his little head up and look at you:

“Come on, lets get up”

He would jump down from the bed,  and I would be given the amazing gift of watching him hop down stairs.

What a glorious way to start your day.

Fill up his dish, he would crush it in seconds. Let him out, sometimes with his smokers jacket in case it was raining.  Listen for a lone bark, let him in. And then be given glorious joy by watching his little ass hop up stairs.

That was my morning for about a year.

At night, I would come home, “listen to some Phish”, and then, well, we had our ice cream…

He got pissed though.  While home, I got introduced to the “Atkins Diet”. (Not a fan) However,  lost 50lbs.

So, we had to switch things from ice cream to cheese. When I say he got pissed, he didn’t,  he loved cheese.

Then I transferred to NY.

The Departure

When I left, my best friend and his wife put on a roast for me.  Dean Martin Roast, not like, you know, roast beef. I could have said pot roast, but some unoriginal douche would have said, “I bet it was a “pot” roast.”

Nonetheless, there was a dinner party, it was great.  I didn’t know that I needed to prepare something.  But, well, next time.

I actually went to a couple of Phish concerts with a dear friend, just to learn that having lawn seats at a Phish show when you’re 30 and sober sucks.  I even found a nice place in Saratoga Springs so I could stalk this girl I was obsessed with.

Yes, I relapsed. On women, not booze or blow.  12 years sober, from booze and blow, if you know what I mean.


The day I was packing to leave, Opie, well, Opie sat on what was our bed during our time living together.

And then he proceeded to piss on it while looking me dead in the eyes.

I crumbled to my knees and the tears flowed while our noses were two centimeters apart.  Very god-awful, romance movie esque.

Then he did something he never did before.

He licked my face uncontrollably for minutes.  Maybe my tears tasted like bacon and cheese from that shitty diet. But he knew what was going on.  Hence the pissing of the bed.

I would move out to NY, line up match.com dates like I was setting meetings for work, then have flings, then more flings, then a marriage, then a divorce, then more flings, to currently weighing the option of celibacy as a legitimate candidate.

And during all of this, I would go home either rarely, primarily due to said failed marriage; or very often after the marriage was euthanized. Every time I did, a stupid smile would come across my face.  I knew he was going to be there.

On July 16th, 2017, he wasn’t eating. He just wasn’t eating. By this time, his hearing was pretty much gone, his paw was shaking like he had Parkinson’s,  and this is on top of his already paint peeling breath, and faucet leaking ass…Which we will talk about again.

But he always would follow me to the fridge. I mean, he had to be moved more often than not to close the damn thing. And he’s only inches off the ground, so he’s easy to miss.

But, he just wasn’t eating.

I rolled him on his side and noticed a little “puff” on his chest. My brother confirmed about how suspicious it was, but here is the thing about Opie, he would always bounce back.  So, we were going to see where the next few days went and go from there.

Ma, told me there was a piece of veal parm in the fridge. I grabbed it cold and started eating it.  I love cold, fried things more than I like hot, fried things.  Except, cold french fries.  That should be a punishment for a child if they curse. No spanking, no soap, make them eat a plate of cold french fries without a condiment or seasoning.

Little cocksucker won’t say cunt again.

Back to the cold veal parm.  I’m not a fan of the veal as much as I am the parm, but I’ll never think of veal parm the same way again; because he came over and looked up into my eyes asking if he could have some.

I lied on the ground with him, and we had, what I didn’t know at the time, but felt in my heart could be, our last meal together.

Just like the good ol’ days.

I got the call four days later, and Ma said:

“This is the call I never wanted to make.”

The little “puff” was a tumor that was filling his lungs with blood.  The little guy was choking on air as he breathed.

Why do we love something so much only to know that their lifetime is so short lived?

Because a child will develop conditions, an attitude, and sometimes resentment.

Where as our furry friends are unconditional love.

Well, just as long as you feed them and give them a clean place to pee and poop.

I will more than likely love another pet again, as we already have two still at the house: Dixon and Jack.  I’m not going to show photos of them, not because I don’t love them, I do.  But neither of them did for me what Opie did…

Opie saved me from me.

Thank you, Opie, that was an awfully nice thing you did. I can only hope you loved me as much as I loved you.  Even when I wasn’t stoned and had an ice cream for you…or cheese…

My favorite story of Opie was the night I first introduced Alison to my family.  Opie would always come over to my, and pretty much anyone’s leg at the kitchen table, for one of three reasons:

  1. Hoping you had food.
  2. I’m a dachshund, what the hell is going on up there?
  3. Both

You would then have to pick him up and sit him on your thigh.  Fast forward to Alison and I heading back to Selkirk. Don’t know where Selkirk is? Good for you, leave it that way.   Just know it’s a really long fucking drive from Rutland, VT.   Anyway,  what is one thing many of us do when we first get in our car after leaving an uncomfortable environment? We let out a fart that sounds like an Air Raid horn in Tel Aviv.  But, no such sound came out from either one of us.  Which is only because I was at my Ma’s and I have no shame while there.  No matter who I’m introducing to the family.

Remember ladies,

Athletic_Hippie on match.com

Spac Profile Pic

And Alison, surprisingly, and if you just so happen to be reading this, you know damn well I’m not lying, she didn’t blast ass either.  Nonetheless, the car smelled like shit.  Like someone put a diaper loaded with the aforementioned port-o-potty from said Dead concert in there.  I don’t know how long the accusations flew in my Nissan Altima but, shortly after, I realized what had happened only moments before.

Opie sat on my lap.

I may never know what it feels like to be a dad.

But, I do know how it feels to love something, someone, more than you ever thought you ever could. Especially when the decade prior, the only thing you loved could only be drank or snorted.

To those that say “Jesus, it’s just a dog”, I’m sorry you feel that way…


You just don’t get it.