Crushed By Reggae Vinyl, And Other Fears

My bedroom is full of gas from my decaying central heating boiler and I’m trying to decide if it’s worth pushing open a window in the hope of not dying in the night; but it’s minus six degrees out there.

I don’t really want it minus six in here.
 
But I decided ‘Yes’ as my girl might miss me, and I’m covering for a colleague at work in the morning.  My diary precludes carbon monoxide death in the night.
 
I’d better write something else in case that proves to be the last sentence I ever write.  I don’t want to be laughed at, ironically, and used as an example of tempting fate.
 
Some days I think my biggest fear is dying in an ironic way.  For instance, I drove back from work tonight at 10pm through the foggy, frozen lanes of rural Leicestershire, and at any moment I could have hit an ice patch and lost control, dying instantly.  Of course I drove soberly and at a reasonable speed so there wouldn’t have been any irony; it would have been entirely a terrible accident, depriving the world of my presence and warmth.  My skills, my rise to glory, my autodidactic struggle would have been emphasized in my elegy.
 
Whereas, last Wednesday I did the same drive after delivering a lecture about drug and alcohol treatment options, in worse fog, driving a little too fast, and after having had a pint and a half of beer.  If I’d spun off the road it would have been riddled with irony.  I should’ve known better!  The hypocrisy of it!!! Outrageous.  It would have been a tragedy in the Shakespearean sense – a man with a fatal flaw brings about his own inevitable downfall.
 
It’s a terrible scourge on my life trying to avoid being used as a moral parable.  I’ll remain in a hyper-vigilant state, (in the same way as trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement) until Death comes.  Even tonight, as a sober and careful driver, I could’ve easily fallen prey to the vulture of irony, just by crashing my car into a ditch whilst listening to ‘Bat out of Hell’ or ‘Warm Leatherette’.  That would teach me.  I once composed a piece of music called ‘Badger Crushing’ and whenever it popped up on my car stereo I would worry about an imminent roadkill incident with a badger.  One can never be too careful: Irony stalks us, without a hood or scythe; just a smirk and a raised eyebrow will wither us.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Jan 17, 2013