Irony is cruel, but she's all I've got, not least because she's jealous. She's the voice narrating life in the back of my head, insisting upon pointing out the flaws in anything that's said. ("If P then Q, but isn't it funny how it applies to you?") Everything runs in loops and she likes to trace them on my skin - even if I could forgive, she makes it impossible to forget.
She's pain and pleasure all at once, and she likes few facts better. Duality is her best friend; Contradiction is just her mother.
Irony is cruel, and I'm repeating myself, but she's as amusing as any I know. I might very well cry when she cracks a joke, but I'll wind up laughing after. Irony's the voice in the back of my head, mingling pain and pleasure.
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