There is no moon reflecting in your eyes
no romantic midnight skies
no motive to disguise
It's not your man that you're dreaming of
your heart couldn't care enough
you're too tired to be in love...

or to be much of anything, for that matter

Can't you see I'm trying?
I don't even like it. I just lied to
Try to keep on going, now I'm staying
Here just for a while
I can't think 'cause I'm just way too tired

Is this it?
Is this it?
Is this... it?

One Part Mexican, One Part Stupid

Lately I have pretty much been feeling like a South-Texan-Mexican. I base this feeling on several acquired habits which I am demonstrating.

Habit 1:
I now crave Hot Cheetos con limon, queso, y jalapeños.

Habit 2:
I get my water from those water stations that are every two blocks down here.

Habit 3:
I feel comfortable when it is 80+ degrees inside my house.

Habit 4:
I put hot sauce on the table to be used as a condiment in virtually every meal.

Habit 5:
I instinctively yell "Chinga pendejo!" when my coworkers play pranks on me.

So, tonight I decided to take the next step and try my hand at Mexican cooking beyond tacos and nachos. I was craving some good chicken tortilla soup, and had a bunch of necessary ingredients lying around the house, so I got out my knives and got to work. I was not following a recipe or really any previous knowledge of how to make tortilla soup, so perhaps that was foolish of me.

The good news is that I believe it had the potential to be very delicious. The bad news is that I over-estimated my spice-tolerance when I chopped up those 3 giant jalapeño peppers and threw them in the mix. This one little oversight has rendered my tortilla soup virtually inedible (at least by me). Next time, I will only need 1 (MAYBE 2) peppers. Lesson learned.

I guess I am not Mexican after all. At least not yet...

What You Can, What You Can't

You can give yourself many things,
but not everything.

You can create a world of happiness for yourself.
It can be a good world where everything is wonderful,
but it can't be a world of joy.
You can't give yourself joy.

You can learn to take pleasure in the small things,
to hold babes when they cry,
and celebrate their little victories.
But you can't stop yourself,
from drawing significance from things that don't mean a thing,
nor from feeling nostalgia for places you've never been.

And sometimes you realize that you're just sitting in the back seat,
watching the crack in the windshield spread its legs,
while the rain comes down outside,
and washes it all away.