Ripley's Believe It or Not

Okay, today kids, we're going to play a new game called "How Many God-Damned Times Am I Going to Run Into My Motherfucking Wife-Beating Ex-Husband" No, come on. It'll be fun. There'll be prizes, maybe even a raffle. Who knows, you might get to go home with a gold fish in a plastic bag.

Well, we all know the last time the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) decided to have some sport.

And there have been a number of times prior to that, one of which included the opportunity of making a slight adjustment to my steering wheel and maybe a little pressure to the gas, and oops, "Officer, that man (My Motherfucking Wife-Beating Ex-Husband) came out of nowhere. I swear." blink blink.

But I certainly can't be upset over missed opportunities, just wait for future ones. NO, I'm just kidding. I would never do anything, I would obviously hire someone. (I'M KIDDING PEOPLE, I'M KIDDING!!!)

Anyway, last night, while on the phone with a man I happen to have a crush on, who happens to live too far away, who I happen to be visiting in nine days (Yay!), I practically walked INTO my ex as he's leaving the gym and I'm walking in. It was really unavoidable. There's only one entrance to my behemoth, Home Depot of a gym.

So here's our list so far:
1. The party in the city I went to over the summer thrown by people I didn't even know.
2. The missed opportunity incident.
3. The Matzo Ball I attended the night before Christmas Eve that had over 2000 people.
4. The SoHo incident. (I might have to count this as two)
5. The gym: four times and counting.

I'm not counting court appearances, the exchange of goods and furniture (actually, it was more like, my taking of goods and furniture thanks to my understanding, anti-wife-beating judge), or the random passing by each other in the car while driving.

No cheating is allowed (conspiring with the evil gods of Fuck-You-(insert my name here) and No-Really-FUCK-YOU-(insert my name here) disqualifies you from the game), everyone must wait their turn, and everyone gets to guess when the next time I get to see my little Pooh-Bear will be. The winner gets to name his prize (within reason, I'm not buying anyone a porsche. Get over it, it's my game.) The game is over if I happen to kill myself prior to its completion. (and it doesn't count if he comes to my funeral).

Good luck!!