Everybody has one. Everybody knows one. Some of us are one, but we’ll never admit it. And I am not talking about a below-the-belt body part. Who do you think I am the Playboy adviser? Although, sometimes I secretly wish I was.

What I am speaking of is a rapidly spreading dating disease with no known cure — the psycho-ex epidemic.

Most of us revel in the demise of our exes. Who says it is not appropriate to cut out the arrest log, highlight their name and stick it to the fridge with the magnet you got when you went on a torturous trip to the coast of Maine and he asked, “You think you should wear THAT to the beach?”

That example is very befitting to the situation. No one is getting hurt here. Except maybe him by Tatted Toothless Two Ton Timmy — his new bunk bed buddy.

(Insert uncontrollable laughter here.)

Of course, it is also harmless fun to take the picture of him in his best Hulk-a-Mania pose wearing only your thong and send it out on a MySpace bulletin. Good ol’ Timmy will be seeing lots of that anyway.

(Queue up the laugh track again.)

Darn, now my mascara is running down my cheeks from the laughter-induced tears. I’ve got to remember to buy waterproof next time. What a perfect excuse if I am caught driving through his neighborhood, which just so happens to be around the corner from the drug store. Actually, it’s about a half a mile in the other direction, but who’s keeping track?

That’s a joke. I am not a psycho-ex, though I am sure there are some out there that would definitely disagree. Look, I told you a million times I am sorry about your dog. How was I supposed to know he would drink the antifreeze after I punctured your truck’s radiator? Get over it already.

This is much less of a riot when you are the present paramour of someone who is psycho-plagued. Especially when you were the other woman. You know, the one who preyed upon his weakness for long dark hair, big brown eyes and candy pink lip gloss.

Blah, blah, blah. You wouldn’t be an ex if you didn’t nag him about band practice, follow him to his best buddy’s bachelor party and make him wear that seersucker suit to your cousin’s Cape wedding. You and the depressed dog boy should look each other up so you can compare and contrast who is more bitter over dollar drafts some lovely evening.

Call me. I’ll set it up.

Disclaimer: The situations and people depicted in this column are not real, but if this sounds like your life do not e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.