They call me Irony. Who knows why my parents named me that; because my father expected a boy? Because neither of my parents were expecting me at all? Or because being their only child, you might expect I was their favorite child, and yet I am not? Whatever the reason, whatever the cause; I am Irony, and I will always give you the opposite of what you wanted. I will go to piano lessons and quit the day before recital, I will show up for class pictures with a mud stain on my shirt, I will set the table, but leave the cups and everyone will have to stand in the meal, when they get thirsty, to get themselves a glass. I’m Irony, and as much as I hate, and savor the bitter bile in my mouth, even I cannot tell what I will get, and what I will do. Sometimes, even I have hope, and Irony’s hope is inevitably lost. But to be human is to house hope; that runs like a headless chicken, splattering everywhere no matter how hard you chop at it, and attempt to force it to die. Everyone expected me to get accepted and move away to the University. And until I didn’t, I hadn’t realized how much that hope had been with me. Not only because it would carry me away from my parents, and our waterless dinner table, but because I still hoped, even after all this time, that they could love me, and call me Truth.