Irony takes new form, changes its own definition

People more famous than me have written songs about unfortunate situations and labeled them, in collective, Ironic. This has led to an entire generation of self-imagined angsty middle schoolers who use the term irony incorrectly until a later age, at which point the real definition is learned and the singer-song writer is blamed for poorly educating our (then) youth; or the misunderstanding of Irony continues to an eventless, irony-free death, probably caused by eating one too many ingredients in the canned cheese product on the unrefrigerated grocery store shelves.

I'm not really wondering how this ties into anything that's happened in my life lately, but I need to go make pickles, so I'll start.
Back in April or March or one of those inspirational months near the beginning of the year when temperature changes rapidly and it becomes much easier to make out with several different girls throughout the calendar week, I decided I would leave Lawrenceville. Friends in California, New Orleans, Ohio, down the hall; I alerted them all. I would finish one bedroom in my parents' investment home by June, move away and hide from everyone who thinks that just because our blood is the same (not true, because mine is fueled by oxygen, Awesome Salsa and donuts) is enough to keep me holed up in a Retirement Investment, or How I Learned the Gentrification Vaccination isn't for Everyone.
After purchasing a new belt sander and a random orbital sander (from Porter Cable), I finally got all the leftover black glue residue off the 100+year-old pine, and then stained it with Ipswitch. And it looks nice, but since I don't care for cameras and couldn't find a picture of the job I'd done on the internet, you get nothing. Then B.F. (not bob faltin) came over and gave me a lesson on rewiring to get rid of the Motherfucking Knob and tube, which is all over the second floor. With just one circuit to the entire upstairs, and countless Ghost Lights left from the old first floor ceiling (covered up under drop ceiling now), we cursed today's atheists for leaving yesterday's gods under my floorboards and behind my walls.

See. Look at that motherfucking spirit escaping from the knob and tube behind those hapless suckers. That's what they get for posing for a picture.

We rewired the room and cut the bathroom from any sort of power, because we're all dumb and like to play with extension cords in the tub. Snipped the fucking line coming from the divided knob and tube, ending the circuit at the light switch by the stairs. Tore and bashed out the old electrical outlets and tossed them to the curb for trash night.

New drywall with Nicole! Stopped drinking!

But at this point, it's mid-to-late July. I've changed my mind three and a half times since declaring my Moving Day in early spring. Lynn is set to move into the room and bring her two long-haired cats with her. Lynn moves in; lives on couch; cats make dander; sneezing commences, wheezing follows. Hiding in private bedroom at end of hall.

Grievances aired, as mucous flies and dries, tissues as disposable reservoirs. Lynn moves out, moves in, moves out in a week. Cats leave, breathing's good again.

No irony here, just a vacancy. Want to live with me?