(Kenny's POV. Free story request for anyone who reviews more than three sentences, ScrewMilk-GotSlash excluded.)
Someone prominent one said, "Irony is a disciplinarian feared only by those who do not know it...".
Whoever he was, he was only half right. Because most people with personal experience hate irony, myself included. I've died in every way possible, and I always come back. Not like when I was a kid, then it pretty much rocked. But after you've become aware of life's futility and bleakness...
Sometimes, I die for lack of anything else to do. I guess that's called suicide. If I've has a particularly shitty day, I might jump off the bridge in town. If I'm hating myself for not being any better than my dad, I'll drink. I've hung, I've poisoned myself, I've slit my wrists. It's no good, I always come back to life. I haven't been to Heaven for years, not since my deaths became self-inflicted, at least. Hell is actually better than Earth. There's no preachers on the street corners, yelling at you to repent. Of course, it's not peachy keen, the people suck ass. I've been killed in Hell several times. But, through some "miracle" I'm always back to life in a couple days. No scars, nothing but a little dry mouth. Nothing to stop me from killing myself again, again, and again.
I despise all that I've become. I am as my father was: an unemployed, alcoholic son-of-a-bitch whose life, and death, will make no impact on this world. Did you think I was killing myself experimentally? I always hope that it'll work this time, that this time will be the last death I have.
Ironic, isn't it? My one wish is to die, something I simply can't do.
Fuck irony.