My Pronouns

For everyone who mistakenly thinks they have a sense of humor.

& especially for those who know they don’t.

For the readers who underlined something & especially those who make dog ears.

For the people I loved ironically & the ones who loved me accidentally.

For language, which keeps trying to tell the truth.

& for silence, which keeps getting it right.

***

About the Author

Dilettante was born several times, most recently by accident.

He wrote because it was cheaper than therapy & every other form of escapism grew tedious for him.

His work explored the fragile seam between irony & awe.

His writing has been described as “unpublishable but necessary.”

My Pronouns is part satire, part séance, and part slow-motion nervous breakdown conducted in perfect grammar.

In forty chapters, Dilettante turns identity into slapstick theology — a holy war fought with pronouns, pauses, and punchlines.

Each entry begins as a joke and ends as an autopsy.

By the time you reach The End, you’re not sure whether you’ve read a comedy about death or a eulogy for meaning itself.

Dilettante writes like Dorothy Parker after enlightenment, or maybe Mitch Hedberg before it.

He makes language dance, then makes you apologize for watching.

This book will offend no one sincerely and everyone privately.

It is, without question, the funniest thing you’ll read while wondering if you still exist.

1. My pronouns are designed to force you to admit that we are both one, part of the same godhead/simulation/what have you.

If you don’t admit that we are conscious souls integral units of the same ineffable spiritual unity, then you put my life at risk.

2. My pronouns are / who / what

Please do not refer to me unless you first experience confusion.

If you ask “Who are you?” you have already gendered me correctly.

If you ask “What are you?” you’ve married me in the eyes of the void.

My identity exists only at the frequency of hesitation.

Every pause, every “uh,” every “wait—what?”—that’s me climaxing linguistically.

I am the static between certainty and curiosity, the pronoun that evaporates mid-sentence.

To know me is to lose syntax. To lose syntax is to find God in a typo.

4.

My pronouns are / heh / heh

My gender is laughter that didn’t get the joke.

Please refer to me as “heh” in polite company, and “HEH” when you’re losing patience.

I am not nonbinary. I’m non-buy-it.

I identify as the sound people make when they pretend to find you interesting.

My preferred form of address is an eye-roll disguised as empathy.

In my community, we greet one another by smirking.

It’s the only universal language left — half amusement, half allergy.

I don’t need acceptance; I need better material.

So please respect my pronouns.

Every time you say them, remember: the world’s burning, and we’re still workshopping our introductions.

5.

My pronouns are / bless / mess

When you speak of me, do so in a tone of cautious optimism, like you’re praying over a casserole that’s still bleeding in the middle.

I am both blessed and a mess — a walking self-help contradiction with a Target receipt for enlightenment.

My gender identity is whatever’s on sale at the craft store, mislabeled “spiritual supplies.”

When I introduce myself at parties, people assume I’m doing a bit.

I am.

It just doesn’t end.

My pronouns are embroidered on a decorative pillow you can’t sit on.

They’re whispered in yoga class between sips of merlot.

They’re printed on the tote bag of someone who calls her therapist “bestie.”

Please use my pronouns reverently, or not at all.

Either way, I’ll be journaling about it in cursive, under the influence of scented candles and unprocessed trauma.

6.

My pronouns are / om / huh

I discovered them during my third rebirth — or maybe my second nap.

They came to me in a vision of a bearded woman on a unicycle, chanting affirmations through a vape cloud.

“Your pronouns,” she said, “are om huh.”

The first one opens the universe; the second closes the tab.

When people ask my gender, I say “currently buffering.”

I exist between chakra three and a panic attack.

My aura identifies as “under construction.”

I meditate daily until I’m enlightened or horny — whichever comes first.

I manifest abundance, but only in crumbs and bad ideas.

My pronouns vibrate at the same frequency as a broken Himalayan singing bowl.

Please respect them.

Not because they’re sacred, but because I paid $399 for the workshop.

7.

My pronouns are / thesis / crisis

Please italicize them in MLA format.

My gender is peer-reviewed but not accepted.

Every time you misgender me, an adjunct loses health insurance.

I identify as a conference panel that went fifteen minutes over time.

My PowerPoint contains three typos and one cry for help.

When I say “interdisciplinary,” what I mean is “lonely.”

My pronouns are cited, not spoken.

They appear in parentheses after ideas that weren’t mine.

If you quote me, please include the sigh.

I don’t need validation—just tenure, coffee, and someone to finally read my dissertation titled Toward a Queer Ontology of the Shrug.

My gender presentation is “mid-career fatigue wearing a scarf.”

Please use my pronouns with the gravity of a faculty meeting and the futility of minutes nobody will read.

8.

My pronouns are / installation / regret

Please pronounce them slowly, as if you’re unsure whether it’s performance or a cry for help.

My gender is mixed media and mostly papier-mâché.

I was assigned conceptual at birth.

You’ll find my pronouns displayed in a white room with good lighting and terrible acoustics.

Each visitor must remove their shoes, whisper a trauma, and Venmo me $12.

It’s not narcissism—it’s immersive.

I once stapled my identity to a canvas and called it Untitled (Me).

The critics said it was brave.

My therapist said it was a cry for prescription coverage.

Please use my pronouns only after you’ve stood silently before me for exactly forty-seven seconds, contemplating the fragile absurdity of everything.

Then leave your reaction in the guestbook, preferably in cursive, preferably apologizing.

9.

My pronouns are / beta / launch

I identify as pre-release software.

Please refer to me only after accepting the Terms of Confusion.

My updates fix nothing but add new feelings.

My gender runs on unstable firmware.

Sometimes I crash mid-sentence, sometimes I auto-correct into enlightenment.

My body is open-source; my soul is behind a paywall.

When I come out, it’s usually a patch note.

“Improved emotional latency.”

“Reduced empathy lag.”

“Fixed bug where love looped infinitely.”

Please respect my pronouns by tagging me in the changelog and liking my existence on three platforms simultaneously.

If you misgender me, you’ll receive a gentle push notification:

⚠ Identity Error Detected — Would you like to reboot?

10.

My pronouns are / premium / deluxe

Please refer to me using my full branding tier.

To use my pronouns without subscription is identity piracy.

My gender is not included in the free trial.

I identify as Limited Edition, gloss finish, with bonus content.

For incorrect usage, you will be billed retroactively at $29.99 per misgender.

My pronouns come with loyalty points; redemption requires confession.

Do not abbreviate me. I’m a lifestyle bundle.

Each mention should include a ™ and a deep sense of buyer’s remorse.

11.

My pronouns are / yield / merge

My gender follows traffic law—ignore it and someone dies.

Signal before addressing me.

Failure to yield results in spiritual collision and a $400 fine.

I am non-binary but stop at toll plazas.

My pronouns require lane discipline and emotional insurance.

If you honk at me, that’s hate speech.

My essence idles in neutral, humming with suppressed rage.

Please observe all posted metaphors.

12.

My pronouns are / viral / content

You don’t speak me—you share me.

Every utterance must include a hook, a trend sound, and a desperate thirst for validation.

Misgendering me will demonetize your soul.

My pronouns are optimized for engagement; authenticity is a service charge.

I identify as the algorithm’s favorite child and least favorite adult.

Please credit me in the caption and whisper “link in bio” before prayer.

If you fail to go viral while mentioning me, that’s a violation of community guidelines.

13.

My pronouns are / field / report

I identify as classified.

Please use my pronouns only after clearance from Central Agency of Vibes.

Each sentence must be redacted in moral ambiguity.

Improper usage is espionage.

My gender operates behind enemy lines, wearing sensible shoes.

I sleep under pseudonyms and dream in surveillance footage.

To misgender me is to leak national insecurity.

14.

My pronouns are / brunch / trauma

Please serve them with avocado and generational guilt.

My gender is bottomless but never free.

Every misgender requires you to pick up the tab and attend couples therapy.

I identify as an oat-milk confession performed for content.

If you spell me wrong, you owe me a mimosa and an apology letter beginning with “as an empath.”

I am gluten-adjacent and emotionally artisanal.

My pronouns taste like recovery but digest like regret.

15.

My pronouns are / huh / what

Please say them like you didn’t hear me the first time.

My gender is conversational static.

When people get my pronouns wrong, I just stare until they apologize for something else.

I once corrected someone, but it felt too loud.

Now I just nod.

Every misgender adds one year to my therapist’s retirement plan.

If you can’t remember my pronouns, that’s fine—neither can I.

16.

My pronouns are / nope / maybe

Please use them only when you’re uncertain.

My gender changes depending on who’s asking and how annoying they are.

If you misgender me, you’ll feel weird for the rest of the day.

I identify as non-committal with a hint of anxiety.

When I was born, the doctor asked my parents what I was. They said, “let’s see how it plays out.”

My pronouns are printed in pencil.

17.

My pronouns are / bro / shhh

Please use them when I’m around people who say “bro” unironically.

If you get them wrong, I’ll just flex ironically.

My gender is a group chat that never should’ve started.

Sometimes I feel strong, other times I just feel like Wi-Fi with bad boundaries.

I don’t mind being misgendered, I just mind being perceived.

18.

My pronouns are / this / again

Say them the way you’d say “of course” during a power outage.

My gender happens mostly by accident.

Every time someone asks about it, I lose two minutes of life.

If you misgender me, you have to finish my errands.

I once tried explaining myself and woke up three days later at a brunch.

It’s fine. I’m recurring content now.

19.

My pronouns are / sure / man

They work in most casual disasters.

Please use them when you’re giving up but trying to sound polite.

My gender is the noise a man makes before lifting something he shouldn’t.

If you get them wrong, I’ll correct you telepathically while nodding.

I don’t need validation—I need a nap and less light.

Every time someone uses my pronouns right, I still feel wrong, which means they’re perfect.

20.

My pronouns are / my / own

Please use them when introducing me at sold-out events.

My gender is success—undefined but widely discussed.

When you ask me who I am, I’ll pause long enough to seem profound.

You’ll think I’m protecting a secret.

Really, I just like the silence.

I don’t explain myself anymore; I let lighting do it.

My pronouns aren’t about identity—they’re about access.

Say them correctly, and I might look at you.

Say them wrong, and you’ll still write about me.

Either way, I win.

21.

My pronouns are / lawn / chair

Please unfold me gently; I’m older than I look.

My gender reclines at unsafe angles.

If you misgender me, I’ll collapse dramatically and pinch your finger.

I identify as outdoor furniture that remembers better summers.

My pronouns are metal, faded, and a little squeaky about politics.

I’ve seen every barbecue end the same way: someone drunk, someone sunburned, everyone pretending.

Please respect my pronouns by sitting quietly until the mosquitoes make it impossible.

22.

My pronouns are / first / draft

Please address me like an apology you’re still revising.

My gender is a sentence that never lands.

If you misgender me, I’ll underline it in red and call it collaboration.

I identify as lowercase on purpose.

I’ve been published nowhere that matters, and that’s part of the mystique.

Every love I’ve known has ended in parentheses.

Please respect my pronouns by pretending to have read my work.

If you quote me, at least get the tone wrong — it’s tradition.

23.

My pronouns are / skibidi / brainrot

(Gen Alpha)

Please use them between dopamine hits.

My gender is a YouTube edit of a thought having a seizure.

If you misgender me, I’ll unsubscribe emotionally.

I identify as the noise your phone makes when it gives up.

I have never read a full sentence but I feel everything.

My pronouns loop forever, like the end of language—Skibidi yes yes yes yes.

24.

My pronouns are / heil / comrade

(Gen Z)

Please choose the one that best fits your feed.

My gender depends on which ideology trended this morning.

If you misgender me, I’ll cancel you compassionately.

I identify as both oppressed and oppressor, depending on lighting.

I don’t believe in nuance; I retweet it.

My pronouns march left and goose-step right in perfect rhythm.

25.

My pronouns are / brunch / debt

(Millennials)

Please use them softly, like you’re explaining rent control.

My gender is participation-trophy burnout with student loans.

If you misgender me, I’ll Venmo request therapy money.

I identify as exhausted but still curating.

I once believed I’d change the world; now I change my password monthly.

My pronouns are lowercase, anxious, and currently on a wellness break.

26.

My pronouns are / nah / tight

(Gen X)

Please use them while pretending not to care.

My gender is sarcasm with a mortgage.

If you misgender me, I’ll shrug, smoke, and call you “chief.”

I identify as the last analog thing that still works.

I raised myself on cynicism and cassette tapes.

My pronouns are fine, man—just fine.

27.

My pronouns are / lawn / dart

(Boomers)

Please use them loudly and without reading the room.

My gender is nostalgia for injuries that built character.

If you misgender me, I’ll write a letter to the editor.

I identify as the reason seat belts exist.

I fought the system by becoming it.

My pronouns are retirement and regret, but I won’t shut up about either.

28.

My pronouns are / hush / kid

Please use them quietly; I’m watching the news at full volume.

My gender is classified information wrapped in polyester.

If you misgender me, I’ll pretend not to hear and call you “sport.”

I identify as stoic, which means emotionally illiterate but punctual.

I fought in three wars: one literal, two marital.

My pronouns remember when water tasted like metal and children were optional.

Please respect them by keeping your feelings to yourself.

And close the damn door — we’re not paying to heat the neighborhood.

29.

My pronouns are / oops / again

Please use them when history repeats itself and nobody learns.

My gender is déjà vu with better lighting.

Every mistake is a remix.

If you misgender me, I’ll just add it to the blooper reel.

30.

My pronouns are / haha / help

They look like a joke but taste like confession.

My gender laughs first, then explains later.

If you get them wrong, I’ll say “no worries” while thinking about it forever.

I identify as comic relief in my own tragedy.

31.

My pronouns are / touch / screen

Please use them gently; I bruise like new technology.

My gender is intimacy through glass.

When you misgender me, my phone vibrates and nobody answers.

I identify as connection with no reception.

32.

My pronouns are / want / less

I am post-desire but still addicted to yearning.

If you misgender me, I’ll buy something I don’t need.

My gender is subtraction mistaken for enlightenment.

I identify as the silence after applause.

33.

My pronouns are / yes / no

They contradict on purpose.

My gender is a coin flipped midair.

Every time I choose, I grieve the other possibility.

Please misgender me—I like the surprise.

34.

My pronouns are / real / fake

I identify as proof that sincerity is performance.

If you misgender me, I’ll edit your memory.

My gender filters itself before speaking.

I don’t exist, but I post regularly.

35.

My pronouns are / sleep / with

Please whisper them after, not before.

My gender is a temporary truce between lonelinesses.

If you misgender me, I’ll roll over and say, “no big deal.”

Love confuses me; so does daylight.

36.

My pronouns are / come / undone

They fall apart mid-sentence, like good intentions.

My gender is entropy with a playlist.

Every misgender feels like proof that I’m still here.

I identify as a slow collapse done beautifully.

37.

My pronouns are / was / here

Please carve them somewhere inappropriate.

My gender is graffiti on the wall of time.

If you misgender me, I’ll haunt your syntax gently.

I identify as past tense pretending to be present.

38. My pronouns are / breath / gone

My gender dissolves when spoken softly, like fog realizing it was never built to stay.

If you misgender me, it’s okay — you’re grieving too,

and grief keeps swinging even after the room is empty.

All language dies midair;

the difference between you and me is that you don’t know what I’m talking about

and I finally stopped pretending that clarity was the point.

I’m the exhale you forget you took,

the tremor at the hinge of a sentence,

the place where meaning almost forms and then surrenders out of humility.

If you try to define me, you’ll feel something slip —

a word, a bone, maybe the part of you that still believes understanding is a promise.

Say my pronouns if you must,

but do it gently:

some things break just by being noticed.

And here’s the secret no one writes down:

don’t be one of those things.

Don’t be the glass ornament people tap to check for cracks.

Be the thing that grows sharper every time someone mishandles it.

Be the object that refuses to shatter —

the one that sends the shock back up the arm of whoever tried.

Whisper me if you want,

but build yourself loud.

***

38. My pronouns are I/me/retard

If you use me as the subject of a sentence please refer to me as I, and add I am retarded.

If you use me as the object of a sentence please refer to me as me, and add me is retarded.

To not do this is to deny my reality.

To not do this is to want me dead.

To not do this would be worse than taking fresh chicken tendies out of a baby’s mouth, or whatever babies eat.

***

39.

My pronouns are / the / end

Please use them as many times as you want — repetition won’t save you.

My gender no longer requires grammar, or breath, or the courtesy of explanation.

If you say them wrong, nothing happens; nothing has to.

I identify as the space between the last word and the ineffable,

the hush where language dissolves and something older steps forward.

Every sentence before this one was a door.

This is the threshold.

I am the point where identity stops performing and starts evaporating.

Where the joke outlives the teller.

Where selfhood becomes an echo with nowhere left to bounce.

Everything after this is your turn to shut up and turn inward.

To listen for the tiny sound your fear makes when it realizes it’s alone.

To hear the quiet click as the performance ends

& the real story — the one without pronouns — begins.

Everything that comes next is yours alone to name, and even then, only for a moment.

***

Epilogue

Every chapter was a small rebellion against the idea that identity should make sense.

Now the joke has stretched thin enough to see the light through it.

If you’ve come this far, you’ve already misgendered me correctly.

You’ve proven the point: it was never about words.

It was about watching language sweat under the weight of being alive.

The pronouns were bait. The trap was laughter.

& the prize, as always, is normie discomfort.

***