en esta casa we come from the land of rancheras

we’re so pretty.

no offense, white people. but seriously. i mean, LOOK. AT. THEM.

now tell me they aren’t amazingly, breathtakingly beautiful.

and yet, he’s doting; she’s disinterested.

see, when you grow up with an idea of love based on these dusty noir settings, with ranchera music where the man is always  slowly opening his veins before you to prove that he’s dying for you, and telenovelas where your true love is really this rich dude that is being forced to marry your evil stepsister’s cousin’s second cousin who also stole your money…well, it does things to you.

it’s a crazy, permeable thing. and it gets to all of us.

yes, it even gets to cynical, know-it-all bitches like me. and i mean, my family is not your classic Latino fam. growing up, i watched more almodóvar than pedro infante. my mom was a single mom/journalist/singer, my dad is a recovering commie, my grandfather is a brabucón who fake fights, eats a whole pork roast and has more books than the NYPL, my nana drinks whiskey and can shuffle cards with one hand… i was never told that i had to get married, have babies, even keep my hair or nails a certain way. and the only telenovela i fully watched was this venezuelan atrocity called “Rubí” that i saw with my Tita when i was like 4.

despite my affection (and some may say unhealthy attraction) toward mexican kitsch, i did not grow up thinking that this is what love was.

and regardless, a flare for the dramatic is inevitably part of my views on romance.

but fear not, dozens of blog readers:  i’m still self-aware enough to not turn this into a livejournal entry. all i’m saying is i see pics like this, and i’m thrown back to the middle school of “el rey.” thanks a lot, internet!

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~ by nadstina on May 3, 2011.

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