A bunch of lit classes I have to take (because they make you take them if you’re a communications major, even though I don’t see what literature has to do with communication) have books in them talking about all the irony we have in modern life. And even though some guy said 9-11 was the death of irony I noticed there’s still plenty of it around, especially in college. And since my high school counselor Mrs. Gebbershotz said your supposed to make connections between you and the material to be learned, I noticed I have a whole shitload of irony in my life right now, because of breaking up with my girlfriend.
But I should try to establish a historical context—well, not about my girlfriend. I met her at a kegger and she was so drunk her friends started calling her “Spring Break,” and slurring her words like she just came from the dentist. But we had this deep conversation, and I boned her, so we were really close after that, since we’d been through a lot together. When I said about historical context I meant for irony in modern life. Because now we’re in the Age of Irony; lots of people say so, like my professors and some dot-commers I know who used to be heinous rich for a while but then lost all their money when their start-up’s tanked and had to buy regular cars and houses again. Which was ironic, because they weren’t expecting that.
Because before the Age of Irony we had the Age of Anxiety. Dr. Shropton in Brit Lit said it all started in a poem by W. A. Auden. But we got over the Age of Anxiety, mainly probably because drug companies invented Valium and Riddalin, and, you know, dank is legal lots of places now. Even jello-shots are good if you have anxiety, so they probably helped too.
But then we had the Age of Irony, which we still have. I know it’s true, because I want to break up with my girlfriend, and it’s incredibly ironic. Not about why to break up—I think she maybe has intimacy issues, like she always wants it and wants me to want it—only I don’t mean sex, I mean like “cuddling” (which is a word she uses that I kinda hate) and watching Meet the Parents or Friends re-runs all the time, or even I Dream of Jeanie. So that’s not ironic.
The ironic part is, How do I do it? I thought it’d be easy. In high school when I dumped Bridgett Sanchez I just told my posse to spread a rumor I was making out with Katelyn Sears, and Bridgett got really pissed and called me a turd so we broke up. But now I’m older and I can’t pull that immature crap any more.
There’s about a hundred ways to tell her! Not the words, I don’t mean that—I’m just gonna say she’s too much like my mom and she should find another guy who likes that kind of thing, but that I’ll fondle our memories. The ironic part is it’s just wicked hard to decide about communicating with her—I’m a communications major, so I think about stuff like this sometimes.
So, I could IM her. And that would be all good, since she couldn’t hit me or anything, or start screaming in public like if we were at the mall. But then she’d IM me back, and I couldn’t log off, at least for a while, so I’d have to sit there and keep getting messages—and she writes these super long messages, the kind you get sleepy reading, or in this case just don’t want to because it’s whiny or mean or even bitter and emotionally immature.
So I could e-mail her, or maybe even like write a letter. But I have standards, so I won’t. You’re not supposed to dump people in writing. It’s called a Dear John letter, even though I think non-gay guys have written them before. And that’s way harsh. Not being gay, I mean—I mean writing a letter to kick someone to the curb.
I could fax her. But then somebody standing next to the fax machine could see she got dumped, and that would be an unconsciousable invasion of her privacy. Which is why I’m going to delete those photos on my phone that I took of her all buffo in the hot tub when her parents were in Cancun. Of course maybe I could text her. But that’d be like IM-ing, because she’d text me back and say stuff I’d have to answer, then she’d text me back again, and I’d answer again, and pretty soon I’d have sore thumbs. Plus I don’t think there are any of those cool abbreviations for dumping people. But maybe I could make some up—like I NO N-2 U, or U R toast 2 me, or I LV U not N-E more, or maybe even something like ITITWSSOP—I Think It’s Time We Started Seeing Other People.
The phone is a whole nother thing. I could leave a message, but she might pick up. I could even just call and talk to her. But that’s bogus, because then I’d have to talk to her.
It’s really ironic a communications major can’t think of a way to tell her, since I am one. And irony means when something happens in literature contrary to expectations (like when I tried to read Finnegan’s Wake by James Joyce and found out he may be learning disabled or something). Or even in life.
But my dad says sometimes it rains pennies from heaven, which he means not like danger but something good. And he was right. I went to a frat party and got all juiced, and they were playing that old Shaggy song that’s pretty tender and sweet about Hey sexy lady, I like your flow, your body’s banging, out of control–and it was jamming and pretty emotional (except for that weird Spanish bullfighter part on the trumpet), so I got all hot for this girl who looked like Katy Perry only without that special glow and the Hooters-type chest gear. (My friend Brian calls boobs “fun bags” or “sweater meat,” but I noticed he’s never had a girlfriend). So we started making out on the couch they have out on the lawn, and some chicks told my girlfriend, so she broke up with me.
She was wicked mad, I guess, because she said a lot of pretty ill stuff, like practically laced with cuss words. And she IM’d me, and texted me, and e-mailed me, and sent this letter with drawings of me looking like a devil, and faxed my mom’s work, and left a message on our home land-line too. Which is ironic, since it all turned out great and I didn’t even have to start a fake rumor and be immature like that.
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