The sun is shining and freedom is in the air. And I don’t trust it. That’s because Irony is one slippery little bugger. Irony comes in and hurts good people even when they bask in freedom’s glow. The prospect of sailing merrily along only to be slapped upside the head with a pungent dose of Irony — Irony gets a capital letter because it ought to be personified as a villainously thin and flatly chuckling bastard — fills me with a deep cynicism. In all surprising honesty, I don’t want to be cynical anymore. I’ve been cynical all my life, and it’s getting old. I need a new state of being, and Irony isn’t letting me have one. Irony isn’t letting anybody have one. Irony is strangling the business world and tiptoeing around preconceived notions of relationships and even snatching people who are loved right off the earth. And evil or not, necessary or not, Irony is still very much a part of life.

Sometimes I don’t know about all this. Life is mad and unpredictable and poetized up the yin-yang, and that’s a beautiful thing. It’s also a frightening thing, though, and there aren’t that many beautiful-frightening things out there. Life is one, and I suppose love is one. Maybe that’s why people continue to write love songs. You can’t very well write a song about life. After all, life only rhymes with the words wife, knife, and strife. Not exactly Grammy material.

Unless your name is Eminem.