Whatever, I Think I'm Hilarious.
On Humor, Authenticity, and the Right to Repeat Yourself
[Context note: This piece contains layered examples of straight and meta sarcasm. It’s okay if you don’t catch some or any of them. You’re welcome to ask for clarification without shame—because you have nothing to be ashamed of. If anything, I should be ashamed for dragging this content warning out way longer than it probably should be.]
I want to give myself a little pat on the back—in the humblest way, of course—
and share the experience with you, my dear reader.
But authentically.
As in, this is actually really, really good for me. And I want you to see it, because if it helps you feel even half this good about yourself, it would absolutely make my day.
I’ve discovered I have become—and maybe always have been—something I truly admired as a child.
Now, is it a little weird that the thing I admired enough to subconsciously mold myself into was… well, this? Probably.
I’m autistic—insert stereotype here—what do you want from me?
But the truth is, I did a thing I’m proud of. And maybe more importantly, I identified a pattern of goodness in myself that I can lean on in other places in my life.
The thing is simple—I’ve adopted a running gag.
“Whatever, I think I’m hilarious.”
Hey, I never said it was original. Or particularly funny to anyone but me.
I throw it out there without ceremony, without waiting for anyone else’s approval. It’s a little flag of joy I get to plant every time, and anyone who catches it gets to share the laugh.
And here’s the part that feels big to me: I’m giving myself explicit permission not to hold it back—not to throttle my joy just to pre-manage what people might think of me. That in itself is the gag’s deeper punchline.
I thought about it and realized—I remember older men doing this throughout my life. Repeating a line, a quip, a silly boast, just loving every bit of the expression that was so confidently on their terms, for the pure joy of self-amusement.
It also reminds me a little of my dad. He does his own version of this, though for him the joy is tied more directly to making other people laugh than to the self-amusement I’m describing here. And I love that about him. Our two versions sit next to each other—his reaching outward, mine reaching inward—both coming from a place of joy.
What I love in all of this is that it isn’t performative joy. It feels like a quiet protest against performative confidence—joy for its own sake.
And here I am, decades later, catching myself carrying it forward.
Maybe that sounds goofy and self-indulgent in a way adults usually aren’t. Which isn’t self-ableism, to be clear, just acknowledgment that this might feel odd to others. But maybe that’s the whole point—that what looks like indulgence from the outside is, for me, a way of finally giving myself permission.
It feels like the kid I never got to be finally getting to be.
And if that isn’t worth a pat on the back, I don’t know what is. ∞