Well, Andi,
My name is Zipplebarth. I am a translucent, purple, magic dragon and the supreme commander of the sixteen levels of what you call reality. You will genuflect whenever you come within 50 feet of me, and lay prostrate with your tongue touching the ground whenever you are within 10 feet of me until I release you from that position.
Wait…You mean I’m out of my mind for demanding that you alter your behavior to accommodate my mental illness and my delusional understanding of life and the workings of the world? Really. Well, I’ll be…
Here’s the long and the short of it, fruitcake. I’m not bending the rules of English grammar to make you feel better about not knowing if you are a boy or a girl. Take a peek between your legs and alter your feelings to match reality. It’s called coping, and everybody does it all day, every day. We don’t pretend we can force others to alter their behavior simply because we don’t like our own dangly bits. We change ourselves; not other people. See, THAT’S how it works. That’s how it’s ALWAYS worked. Imagining that you can make everyone around you rework their native tongue to appease your delicate feelings is as silly as, well, pretending there are more than two genders.
Maybe you can step outside yourself for two seconds and imagine a world in which everyone is forced to bend over backward to play make-believe with everyone else all the time. Yeah. That’s not tenable at all. You see, no one does any actual work in that world because we’re all consumed with worry about stepping on the tails of imaginary purple dragons and whatnot.
If you want to be a homosexual, bi-sexual, asexual, pan-sexual, freak-sexual, or the whatever-sexual du jour, then do so: No one gives a flying Wallenda what you do in your bedroom. Freak yourself right into the lunatic asylum. Just don’t try to drag the rest of Western society with you; we won’t go.