Tequila Blanca

Tequila, a potion to cure the most classic of ailments: sobriety. White sand beaches to feel more whole in your whiteness; with a little lime and salt, you can have it all.

Mexico. Like something my sister said after my breakup: you need a resort vacation. You need a drink.

She couldn’t have meant seven shots of Patron.

48 hours after failing a sobriety test I am feeling like your basic drunk white girl in time out. I can’t remember the last two days. The abuelo in the jail cell next to me is muttering an insincere repentance to an uninterested policia.

Here, all I wanted was a reprieve.

My boyfriend, a Spanish heartbreaker, had said: you are la chica mas aburrida he had ever met. All because I wanted a family and a future together.

But aren’t we all basic in wanting such things?

I was beginning to notice that Spanish flips their language, noun before adjective. In this case, presenting me as a woman and then punishing me with a slap.

I can feel the effects of the hangover already; there needs to be more to life than just boys and booze and being beaten down. I want to say I’ve learned a life lesson, but I’m still as blanca as the tequila. I’m just adding salt to wound; white, washed up, wasted. Basic.