I watch the comedian
Whose energy is that of a fifteen year old boy
And who dresses like one too.
Who doesn’t need to even have a sense of humor
Or thought-out jokes,
Because, you know,
As they say with a chuckle and
Some sort of pride or
admitted affection I still struggle to
Find the origins of,
“He’s just that kind of guy.”
I think of the kind of person they say I am,
And how there is no equivalent of this man
Who has breasts; there’s no synonym.
And I paid to see him.
I don’t know why
And I cannot.
For him it’s a fun game
And for me
It’s a plot.
No, no, you’re correct. I must be mistaken.
It’s by my own reasons that I accidentally created.
Not because I’m unable to be “that kind of guy,”
But because I covered my own mouth with tape
And screamed “why?”
And I must have made up
All the context clues
That were spit in my face
While I was just sitting there.
Would you discredit them
If you really knew
to whom they trace?
Now that doesn’t seem fair.
A teacher who told me I have a resting bitch face,
A drunk stranger at a festival who blabbed at me to smile,
A classmate who told me to chill out,
A coworker who took me by the shoulders and shook me,
laughing, “you’re so tight.”
Surely they all
misread my face,
Surely they didn’t mean to make me feel out of place.
There’s one thing they have in common:
they’ve all been “that kind of guy” before.
Paris Mather is a 21 year old writer from Cleveland, Ohio. For her, writing is a necessity rather than a luxury. As a student at Case Western Reserve University, she spends her time writing, reading, playing piano, cooking, and living through emotions that usually turn into poetry.