Turning into a history nerd during quarantine taught me that there's legitimately no point in trying have some influence over how you'll be remembered after your death. Two thousand years from now a historian will dig up a post you wrote that was copied in a zine and survived for two millennia because it was wedged between two laptops in a rubbish heap. Your shitpost about gender will turn into a postgrad's paper on sexuality in early 21st century American culture. That's it. That's what they'll remember. And you know, maybe that's fine. Maybe that's more than fine.
One of my favorite examples of this comes from Elanor Robinson's excellent book Mathematics in Ancient Iraq:
Although very few mathematical tablets survive from the early and mid-first millennium, almost all of them come from identifiable archaeological contexts. The oldest were two metrological lists [...] discovered accidentally, in a cache of 128 tablets which had been used as rubble packing around the burial of a ten-year-old child, whose body had been laid to rest in a large terracotta jar in the ruins of a Kassite-period palace in the west of the city. [...] They are thus amongst the earliest known tablets of the Neo-Babylonian period.
There. That's it. Over 2000 years ago they buried a child with some random tablets, and now they've proven to be instrumental in our knowledge of Neo-Babylonia. That child, and their parents could never have possibly guessed the influence they would have across such a profound chasm of time. I hope you feel good about that dick you carved into your desk in 9th grade, because a few centuries from now it's going in a coffee table history book.