Goddamnit, I'm Mexican

So I'm sitting in my hotel room today, writing away, and the neighbor suddenly cranks up Los Tigres del Norte. I'm instantly filled with joy and a longing for home, to hang out with my buggie drinking beers on his porch, his own porch, which he owns himself and which is sure to be a place for his friends in the future. I'm filled with a longing to hear corridos on the radio, norteño music in restaurants, blaring from cars rolling through my neighborhood. Hell, that's the shit I heard all my life. That and KFAT.

I belive in the concept of mañana. I´ll say yes to some things just to be kind, and then bale out later. I do what I can to save face, both for you and for me. I crave carne asada tacos, carnitas, chilaquiles. I want to squeeze lemon into my soup. Hell, I want to squeeze lemon on everything. I want to hear the old ladies calling me mijo. Corazón. I can't stop saying "¡Órale!" I can never find that fucking chingadera when I want to. I get angry when Argentines destroy Mexican food. I like big butts. I grew up trying to understand my neighbors talking in Spanish. The Royal Emperors had headquarters down the street from my house (until they got busted). All those years working in restaurants, the only people in the business I could ever stand were the Mexicans.

If all this is true, well then, shit - aren't I even just a little bit Mexican?
MT? Am I? Can I be an honorary Mexican?