Everyone goes through the stages of slam poetry.

Initial Exposure: You go with your college friend to watch the prettiest, most bohemian girl on the planet from their psych 101 class perform slam poetry at the bicycle-repair-shop-and-underground-cafe in your college town. You’re floored by her emotional story of helping a friend call the National Suicide Hotline. A single tear rolls down her face as she chokes out her final verse. You’re floored by her performance.

Second Exposure: You watch the next performer nervously address the mic. They are somehow the most well groomed person you’ve ever seen and the sweatiest person you’ve ever seen. The Christmas lights that are hanging a foot above the stage dance off from glistening forehead. He is funny, weaving a story about his precocious little brother stealing mom’s credit card to by Pokémon cards. Then boom. Cancer. He hangs his head and continues, finishing softly and existing the stage swiftly. You’re moved…but suspicious.

Final Exposure: You’ve watch a few more acts and are starting to see a pattern. A mother tells a story about her miscarriage 20 years ago. An obviously not-out-yet student laments about feeling rejected by his roommate’s ex-girlfriend. An eternally benched football player in his second senior year recounts his struggle to get a scholarship while juggling a job and watching his siblings. Finally a middle aged man in a stained Star Wars shirt opines about some lost love and your pretty sure he’s talking about a child he met online. You and your friend decide to leave, get drunk, and relentlessly make fun of the acts you just saw.