I don’t really go to bars at 2AM, but I did on Friday the 13th. Two weeks after I officially moved to NYC, three months after you ghosted me and presumably moved back to the Bay, four minutes after my left contact was lost to the streets and I half-blindly stumbled into Coyote Club, how lucky I was to see *you* (out of my one good eye) entangled with a bleach blonde when you had said you "weren’t in a place to date anyone for a long, long time.” Liar. You just didn't want to date me. Passing you AGAIN two weeks later at Folsom Street Fair in San Fran-fucking-cisco (!?!), your unsubtle avoidance (i.e., darting into an alley upon sight) had me puking up percocets on 10th Street. A damn near decade of fleeting meetings and missed connections — for what? Zen Master Seung Sahn wrote: “The Buddha taught that when you pass somebody on the street and merely brush sleeves with them, it is because you have made the same karma together for five hundred lifetimes.” But we did more than brush sleeves… We knocked boots. I have devoted the last nine months of my life to figuring out how to end this karmic cycle but (unfortunately) can’t even decide whether I do or don’t want to see you again in *this* lifetime.