Pronunciation: /ahy-ruh-nee/

Irony describes something that is unexpected or stupidly coincidental. It could also be something that simply makes you roll your eyes and sigh: ‘That’s so typical.” For instance, I find it quite ironic that in my opinion, “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette is the best song to audition with for TV singing contests or talent shows, yet nobody has ever used it for that purpose (as far as I know).

Many things I do or that happen to me are ironic. Or just dumb (sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. Other times it’s just easier to opt for irony than to call yourself stupid).
An example is the fact that I hate, hate, HATE bad story lines, but even so I almost died from an overdose of laughter when watching Sharknado (and Sharknado 2). As far as bad story lines come, these movies are perfect examples of what should never have hit the big screen. Although I assume it never did and went straight to DVD. But still.

A better example of irony is my phobia of vomiting.
When you’re done laughing, I’d like to point out that emetophobia, as it’s officially named, is a very prevalent fear. In fact, on the list of most common phobias worldwide it’s listed as number seven (on my personal list of phobias, it’s number two. Right under worms/maggots/etc. and my fears of commitment and trusting people -I can’t decide which is worse so it’s a shared number one).
The reason why my vomit phobia is ironic, is because if I hadn’t been so afraid of throwing up I’d probably have ended up with anorexia in my teenage years. Or something similar, like bulimia.
I am convinced of this, since I was so into hurting myself when I was depressed, I know I would have developed any serious eating disorder to punish myself for… what, really? Not being like everyone else. Hating myself.
The irony lies in the fact that something that scares me a lot kept me from doing something very unhealthy and stupid. My fear saved my life.

Or at least my teeth, because excessive vomiting can damage your teeth tremendously (among the obvious other hazards).

Anyway, my personal irony continues: I hate meeting new people, yet I took a job where I actually have to go out and do this on a weekly basis. I hate my supervisor, because she keeps coming up with the worst work schedules for me, but then I call her myself to move four addresses, spread over two days, onto one day so I can have a Tuesday off.

I just realized that maybe I’m not being ironic but just really hypocritical and stupid.

No, irony still sounds better. And this way I have something else to blame for the mess and chaos that is my life.
Darn, I know I should have chosen sarcasm as a topic to write about, that’s practically my middle name! Oh well, too late now.

Maybe the biggest form of irony that’s hit me lately, is Implanon. Implanon is a small matchstick-sized ingot the gynaecologist shot up my arm five months ago and was supposed to keep me from having my period. Supposed to, because, ironically, since the thing was implemented I’ve been having nothing but my period. Gruesome to read about, true, but imagine what I must feel like after five months of it. Pure desperation, total agony, anger and even a few moments of strong urges to kill.

Good thing I’m not a psychopath.

I’m now twenty-eight and everywhere I apply for a job I’m turned down because I am too old (they never say that, but for the price of hiring me they could hire at least two eighteen-year-olds instead). But because I am well under forty, the risks of me having a serious health condition involving my uterus are too slim to test me for anything. If that’s not ironic, I don’t know what is.

PS: I’m getting the Implanon removed December 2nd, which is why I moved my Tuesday-clients to Monday. And if my new gynaecologist also refuses to help me beyond hormone-regulated medicine, I think I might actually turn out to be a psychopath after all.

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