Hell yes, I'm from Texas. If you don't like it, I don't care. I probably don't like where you're from either.
Now that we've got that out of the way, I'll tell you a secret. I love tequila.
Mr. Patron and I have a love-hate relationship. I love him very much. I hate the way he makes me lose just one earring at a time. All in all though, we get along splendidly. He takes me dancing and to hot dog stands in the middle of the night and he makes me forget how badly my feet hurt from the 4 inch heels that look super hot but were really meant for torturing war criminals.
Tequila doesn't tell you it's prettier than you--it makes you think you look great when the sweat from the night club has made your eye makeup smudge and your hair look like a rat's nest. It builds your confidence so you can punch the guy who just walked up to you with his creepy well-vodka and Bud Light smile and tried to touch your titties right back to the mid-western state from whence he came.
Tequila makes "fixin' to" sound normal even to the least Texas-y people in the crowd. Which brings us to my twang. Yeah, I have one. It's all good. I have friends that don't believe me. I have other friends that can't believe anyone would think I don't have one. My twang is most noticeable in voicemails, when I'm excited and when I'm drunk.
Bottoms up, y'all.
