I am sarcastic. Heavily so.
I have always been this way, or at least for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, I was painfully shy, which meant not many people outside close family and friends knew about my love for verbal irony. Those who did, though, would sometimes comment that I was funny, following that up with things like, “Why don’t you share that with other people? You know, so they can see that you actually have something to say that’s worth listening to.”
Thanks for that. No, really. It made me feel amazing.
Others, though, internalized my sarcasm differently. They saw it as a personality flaw — something I should hide in favor of presenting myself as wholesome and positive. (And it would seem they are not alone. I guess some think sarcasm is a personality disorder or something? Well, giddy up!) So for a long time, I tried to keep my sarcasm under wraps. I was self-conscious about it. Thought it was indicative that something was seriously wrong with me.
When I entered adulthood, I slowly began breaking out of my reservedness and being who I was. And for the most part, it’s been great. But there are some struggles when it comes to being a sarcastic lady. Things like:
People think you’re just a mega bitch. Sarcasm isn’t becoming of a lady. Ladies are supposed to be prim and proper and agreeable and shit. Riiiiiiiight. You’ll have to remember that one.
Sarcasm is your coping mechanism. Somebody died and you don’t know what to say? Apparently responding to condolences with, “She’s been dead to me for years, anyway” isn’t the right way to go.
Self-deprecation is your second language. Especially when someone does something like compliment your looks. “Thanks! Who knew mite-infested-crack-whore would be so en vogue this year?”
People always think you’re serious. Specifically if you’ve reached Sarcasm Level: Expert.
Many find you unapproachable. Never mind that it’s probably because you literally don’t want them to approach you. Ever.
People assume you’re tough as nails. And you are. Totally, totally are. If those nails are buried beneath a big, steaming pile of mushy sensitivity and occasional insecurity, that is.
Social awkwardness is your superpower. If anyone needs a room cleared stat, you’re their gal.
You have a low tolerance for people who can’t recognize humor. Particularly satire. WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT IT? No, really. You’re dying to know.
You don’t deal well with the feelings. Your own, for sure, but most notably other people’s. “Yeah, if you could just go ahead and cry anywhere that’s not here, that’d be great.”
People assume you’re always making fun of them. Calm down, narcissists. It may be shocking to hear, but not everything’s about you. We sarcastic ladies are equal opportunity jokesters. Everything and everyone is fair game, including ourselves.
People think you’re just unhappy. On the contrary, you’re actually functionally stable. Besides, what is this unhappiness they speak of? Is that, like, something only sarcastic people suffer from?
Men are intimidated by you. It’s a proven fact that female sarcasm shrinks the scrotum, thus signaling the male species to run for safety. It’s science.
Everyone expects you to be funny on command. “Oh, hey, Susy! You’re funny!” *looks at everyone else at the table* “She’s funny.” *looks back at you* “Say something funny, Susy. Like … right now.”