The news that "100 Things To Do Before you Die," author Dave Freeman has, well, died, confirms my absolute worst fear:
DYING AN IRONIC DEATH.
My adult onset terror surrounding all things chronic and ironic started in the days leading up to age 30.
Here's the pre-birthday posthumous script I wrote in my head:
FRIEND #1: Hey, did you hear about Liz?
FRIEND #2: Yah, I'm sorry I missed her birthday party. The big 3-0! I can't believe she survived her 20's!
FRIEND #1: No, dude. She didn't. She was hit by the crosstown M79 bus the night before turning 30. Pretty sad.
FRIEND #2: Wow, That's terrible. But hey, she would have appreciated the irony, right?
There are darker scenes suited for even more joyous occasions, but I'm afraid to write them. And yes, gentle ironist, I realize the irony of, I Ironia, fearing irony.
I'm almost afraid to mention this phobia, lest I add another layer of irony to the ironic death that could be lurking around the next corner. But compulsion trumps superstition and so I begrudgingly press PUBLISH POST.