I like to write a lot on Fridays before holidays, when I’m the only one stupid enough to have used up all her vacation days.

I almost had a panic attack an hour ago, in my car, while driving to Jack in the Box. On the one hand, I’ve had some minor-to-not-so-minor stresses going on lately. On the other hand, I was very hungry, and I’m on my way to fulfilling the promise of my heritage by becoming diabetic any freaking second now, so I knew in the rational corner of my mind that this panic attack was only the result of a blood sugar fluctuation and not (as the rest of my mind wanted me to believe) a sign of doom from God.

One Ultimate Cheeseburger later, everything is okay. Except for the fact that I still have to renew the (April) registration sticker on my car. And, you know, that there’s a big fucking rat walking around our apartment whenever the fuck it feels like, and our rat traps haven’t yet caught him.

This is the second rodent this month, in case anybody wants to start a tally.

On the bright side of the silver lining of the cup of lemonade that I’m making from these lemons: This should make it easier for me to break my lease and move into our new house this summer.

I feel a level-up coming on. You know what I mean? When you’re playing a role-playing game, as a warrior or a sorceror or whatever, and you do enough work to go to the next level? And you do, and a blue light surrounds your body, shooting up into the air, as the number next to your name increases by one?

That’s gonna be me in a second – as soon as I kill three more monsters. But, for some reason, the moment right before the level-up always makes me a little nervous. The moment right after it, too. But that’s okay. I’ll buy some new armor and get over it.

The Mexican in Me

makes me superstitious. Makes me respect my elders for fear that, otherwise, my grandmother will fly down from heaven to slap my face. Makes me talk really loud when I’m excited or mad. Makes me get mad whenever I feel like it, like it’s a perfectly healthy thing. Makes my butt big. Makes my lips big. Makes my eyes big. Makes me pale green in certain lights. Makes me want to wear shiny, pretty things. Makes me love babies and animals. Keeps me from getting my ass kicked. Makes me mean, but only because I love you. Puts moles on my skin.

(Makes me diabetic, some day soon, maybe. That’s what put my grandma in heaven, along with other things.)

It makes you say I’m using the Race Card to get by.

It makes me a little bit magic.

The White in Me

makes me love elves and dwarves. Makes me want to hang cross-stitched samplers in my house, with letters and symbols that mean things. Makes me money-hungry. Makes it okay for me to wear nothing shiny, sometimes. Lets me think I’m so smart so school, even while I might be stupid at home. Makes the cops listen to my side of the story. Makes you trust me at garage sales. Gives me stretch marks and makes me burn in the sun. Makes me sweet to strangers, even when I want to hate them.

It makes you say I’m using White Privilege to get by.

It makes me a little bit magic.

Did that offend anyone?

Too bad, too bad. That’s my right as a mixed-up person – to love and hate everything.

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Posted in culture, health on 05/26/2006 06:21 pm

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