Not the Mexican rocker Santana, the Mexican girl from Glee Santana.
Maybe it means I want to be Mexican (Oh my god I wish) (Do you know how awesome I would be as a Mexican? TOTALLY awesome.) (And I would time travel back to 1991 when being a Mexican girl meant I could wear lip liner the color of chocolate, and pale nothingness as the fill in lipstick, and I would hair spray my hair so crispy if you got near it you could snag your sweater on it and end up trapped in my curls like a burr patch, and I would talk with a thick ghetto accent even though my parents and I speak Castilian Spanish at home, and I would wouldn't have had to wear pants that stopped about mid-thigh because I out grew everything at a lightning pace back then because I wouldn't wear pants, I would wear leggings under jean shorts and an over-sized Raiders jersey that I borrowed from my boyfriend Jose! I don't even care which Jose, and of the ones I knew would work!)
(To be fair that's actually what I looked like back then because I desperately wanted to be Mexican except I'm not, so I just looked like a ridiculous, white, gangly, Jewish girl with too much mousse in her hair and not enough boob to make the Raiders jersey look remotely attractive. It just looked like I was wearing a nightgown to school. And that I'd accidentally lined my lips with a sharpie.)
Anyway, the holidays are over and it's time for mah stories to start coming back on. Raising Hope, Glee . . . lets do this mother!
Here's a magic little gem because it's the song I dreamed about last night. Santana was singing it to me at the hospital while I got my teeth capped with gold and diamond caps. And then I shaved my head.
Maybe I don't wanna be Mexican, maybe I want to be a rapper.
I'm not sure I would fair as well.
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