I've been a bit fond of the mute, wiry thing on my bed. Nothing innovative - my telephone. It substitutes almost everything: food, time, agony with self. Tonight I was on the phone with a friend, made a casual remark and responded to with, "You're sarcastic."

Ah.

Well, sarcasm is for me what an ever-boisterous laugh, joke overdose, or deficiency in speech is for others. It lets me off. To flee from a mundane speech before I get holes in my earlobes. To take flight from unpleasant, looming things.
Another thing incredibly loveable about sarcasm is the smack. In brief, (most) people are hanging meat (or hovering - absolutely your call) and everytime I do sarcasm, I get a smack. It goes way in, squelchily. That keeps them away. Sort of like garnished pesticide.

One needs sarcasm for sheer survival. The logic of the case is that one needs to work towards being a knight (or maiden) in a polished armour. Sarcasm is my polish, my metal. Take that away and I'm limping, drooping, lessening.
I can be perfectly nice too. If people stop turning into hovering meat.