A single-woman’s bathroom is like a mad scientist’s laboratory. Vials of multicolored liquid, tubes oozing noxious pastes, beakers boiling with steam. I’m reluctant to open cupboards out of fear that I’ll unwittingly infect myself with ebola or uncover W.M.Ds.

Every girl I’ve dated could potentially be a terrorist. Truth. There are enough volatile chemicals in the typical woman’s personal-care arsenal to take out a small town. I’m convinced that any mid-level Al Qaeda operative would be able to whip up Anthrax from female hair products alone.

Then again, maybe I’m generalizing. Perhaps this bathroom-cum-weapons-lab situation is unique to my exes. After all, for some unfathomable reason the type of girls who are attracted to me tend to be somewhat…unstable. (Shut it. Unfathomable!)

Which isn’t to imply that any of my exes actually are terrorists. But lets just say that if a bomb ever goes off near ESPN headquarters, I’ll have my suspicions…