the instinctual apprehension of irony, then. the debate as to flavors of irony, the literary device, even the word itself all arise from the fact that that we can recognize it - until, of course, it creeps up on us again. dammit. even when we can't pin it down to explain it or categorize it, we get all belatedly epiphinal when we see it. kind of like the pot of petunias. kiiiiiind of like how i just KNOW tim's gonna have a field day with the turn this has taken.

of course, you could (well, one could. i'm certainly not going to - it's not my job, after all. *grin*) argue that our own flaws are both conferred by fate and in turn create it; holgraphic, enfolded synchronicity and all.

why wouldn't you want it to rain on your wedding day, that's what I wanna know.