3 Ts

At first, I was proud of any high school graduate, but after 10 years of going through the motions, it's getting pretty painful.
I've gone to 4 high school graduation parties in just the last two days.
The parties are best described with the 3 Ts:
1. Tacos
2. Tequila
and
3. Talking.

The tacos are awesome... especially when that trustee Taquero Man is hired.
Then it hurts like hell after a couple of hours.
Putos taquitos de Al Pastor and Carne Asada! So good... but ahhhhh! I feel like a baby alien is ripping apart my intestines with a ninja star.

And the tequila... no lie, my mom has been drunk these last two days (such a fucking pain. She's up at the crack of dawn watching the World Cup games and once someone scores, she starts doing her gayass Mexican Mariachi scream that only sounds like someone broke in the house and is trying to slit her throat... it's fucking alarming to wake up to that shit, I tell you). I've been DD, with my shit-tastic night vision... and get this! I have been driving my mom's car, which is fine... except that motherfucker's speedometer is NONFUNCTIONAL.
The little lady better not keep this up.

And finally the talking. The talking!!
My mom will never shut her trap at these parties ("OMG, you're *Mom*'s daughter?! How are you so quiet?!" Maybe... if she ever SHUTS UP!). Mom can have a conversation with a rock! So, when there's ladies she knows at these shindigs, she forces me to sit with her and listen to their conversations. Since these conversations revolve around the old days, or upcoming weddings, I'm usually bored with nothing to do. I can people watch for only so long before I start giving people the wrong impression.
I swear to God, that bitch looks at me again, I'm gonna beat a bitch up! Tryyyy it! At least I'll be entertained.
Hey, don't move... don't move... but I think AnoMALIE's checking me out. She's been doing it all day. Babe, you're 17 (or in today's case, 42... which was... I puked in my mouth when he tried hollering. Then he kept walking back and forth past me and inching closer until he finally rubbed up against me and I looked him in the eyes and gave him my best disgusted look. That shit DOES NOT fly with me), why would I be giving you the eye? I already knew how to divide by the time you were born (or in the old man's case, he was already jacking off to photos of Sasha Montenegro, or whoever the fuck was popular back then, by the time I was born), that means NO.

Yeah, I know, I complain a lot... and it always seems like I'm doing a ton of shit I don't feel like doing, but what can I say? If I like you, you can probably get me to lick a New York sidewalk.
I care that much.

Ah, to be Mexican!