I’m the guy who’s 34 years old. I am a father, a husband, a son and a brother. I am a writer, and a slacker. I am by turns diligent and lazy, surly and kind. I am, to some, ‘that kwai ang mo’ and to others (a couple of exes) ‘that sonofabitch’. I’m that guy.
I am the one that stole your pen, and I am the one that left a bag of dog food next to you while you and your dog slept on the sidewalk outside the pharmacy. I am the guy that always orders the regular ice blend mocha from you, no whipped cream, then sits outside and reads and writes and chain smokes. I am the guy that buys one can of Dr Pepper at a time from you, because it’s a reward for small accomplishments.
I’m the guy who’s still waiting for you to apologize.
I am the guy that sat down in the parking lot and stared up at the full harvest moon, and you came up to me, jittery from the crystal meth, and asked me what I was doing. And when I told you, you said ‘Yeah, I’ve seen her up there, dancing like Stevie Nicks in pink chiffon’.
I’m the guy that ran over your dog, and what the hell was he doing out at one am? I am the guy that said your mother looked like a turtle, only I didn’t know it was your mother and I still feel bad about that. I am the guy that fell asleep during the philosophy final, and thanks for kicking my seat.
I’m the guy whose shirt you poured ink on.
I’m the one who threw up in (near, around) your recliner, and I’m the one who chopped down the evergreen in your front lawn. I’m also the one who changes your diapers at four in the morning, and the guy who sits with you while you take your shower for a month after you watch a scary movie.
I’m the guy who likes cheese.
I’m the guy you mocked in Geometry class, and I’m the guy you punched in the face for burning the tapioca pudding. I’m the guy who went to your funeral after you wrapped yourself around a tree on that stupid motorcycle, even though I never liked you. I’m the one who wouldn’t go down to the golf course to make out with you. I’m the one who stayed up all night waiting for you to call.
I’m the one who left.
I’m the one saw you come out of the womb, and wondered if your head would always be so pointy. I’m the guy who promised I’d be there, but wasn’t. I’m the one who didn’t stutter when it came time to say ‘comfort’.
Yeah, I’m that guy. Who are you?