There is no such thing as an ugly woman

I’m convinced. And I’m also exaggerating kind of but not really because I know they are few and far in between; therefore rare. I've seen enough make-over shows in my life to understand that no matter how ugly a woman might seem at first corneal destruction, no matter how much her eyebrows look like dried mud-streaks on her forehead, or how bright the radioactive lipstick she uses makes her lips, or how her mistreated tooth-brush of a cranium has sprouted straw like strands of hair ...

There is no such thing as an ugly woman..

And I'm not saying they're not ugly because they are beautiful on the inside. Of course there are those women who give so much of themselves every day that you can't help but be in awe when you're around them--how can you really turn the other cheek? How can you work those two jobs and still make it to your daughter's soccer game? How did you hold that marriage together? How did you forgive him, and forgive him again?

--Who are so magnificent that even if they ran the risk of slitting your throat open with their snaggle tooth, you would ask yourself the question: "Could I really be in a relationship with this swamp thing?" And you cry because the answer is yes, you can, when you realize that the physical really means little in the long run. Because even when they're ugly, they're beautiful because of it.

But discounting them. There is no such thing as ugly women. I haven't seen them. Maybe there are conditions that make them look better, like darkness and drunkness, but ugliness ... doesn't exist. And I wish I was young again so I could believe in ugliness, but I realize now what I realized then, that there really isn't ugly women, and how this whole ugly duckling into a Swan thing is a matter of socialization--we're just trying to fit in when we call them ugly!

But they're not. And it's beautiful, because now we can't objectify ... we can only glorify and appreciate. Eff. "Ugly" people are people too, and they have feelings, and just because you feel fat sometimes doesn't mean you should make yourself feel better by comparing their faces to rocks.

I Love you.

Don't be handsome. Just be rich. [ no pic ]

Or have the potential to be rich. Dangle your drive and possibility for greatness out there, like a carrot, like a grape, like an inflated dollar you can’t even buy a bag of chips with any more. An extra seven cents? Don’t get slapped Liquor Store Man, the bag says 99 cents in bright yellow letters, I will run out this building with my snack and my dollar if you play with my emotions like that.

But the more I think about life and love, the more I realize that I feel sorry for the non-existent ugly woman who isn’t really ugly just perceived to be ugly because she’s not prissed and primed.

Imagine, the chances of an ugly woman bagging the most beautiful man on the planet are slim. How would she even approach him? How could she talk without slitting his throat with her snaggle tooth on accident? Wouldn’t he question himself: is she a vampire or a werewolf, a gorilla or a giant rat?

But we men don’t have to think about that. All we need is a fat check-book. I’m d’. And if you don’t know how to make a lot of money, then save a little—figure out a way to do it—wait ‘til the market is going back up and buy an index fund.

OR. Do something worthless like write and get people emotionally involved and sell the stories, then invest the money you make from books and become rich, then pick from the plethora of gold-diggers like you would from a field of flowers for a wife.

A Thursday at Friday's

It was a beautiful Summer evening. I was with my bitch and her kids. Just kidding. I was just checking to make sure you were paying attention.

It was just my bitch.

By bitch I mean my friends and I celebrating a birthday. By kids I mean the ones we didn’t have because we were between 16 and 19. By “we didn’t have” I mean 70% of them did, and left them at home supervised by the television. Watching Fox News. Oh hell no. At least Terminator 3—something to inspire them with.

It was T.G.I.F., on a Thursday and I had never eaten there before. So we’re sitting around laughing, drunk because we drove there drunk, buying more drinks with our fake I.D.’s purchased for $80 from the homie with a hook-up at the DMV (his mom).

38 minutes pass and the waitress finally gets to my side of the table. I’m holding up the menu trying to figure out what language the shiznit is in, because none of the words or letters make sense to me.

At which point my bitch—my friends—inform me that I’m holding the thing upside down. Oooooooooh. My bad. But the lady was already there, tapping a pen against her pad as if it’s my fault that she too had children in high school and has to work two full-time jobs to keep a roof over their head and keep them fed.

Understand that I’m not judging. I’m just offended by her being offended by my taking the time to order. We were a group over 8, she was getting gratuity regardless, she didn’t have to play the nice woman. So she didn't and that hurt my feelings.

Being the wonderful tall man that I am (kneegrow), I ask her what she would recommend. She puts the pen to her chin and says “Ummm, well the chicken’s good.” Secretly saying "You black bastard. Do you want grape drink?"

… so I gave her an extra tip.

Can nothing really get done at pharmacies?

Or any where else? My mommy placed an order at the local drug-dealer, and these pasty-faced white coat wearing chemists messed up on her order. They went to school, joining the 15% of the people in the world that even get a college education.

As a man working towards a degree myself, I can say that doesn’t say much, because yes they can deconstruct the seven levels of consciousness or figure out the polarity between the interstellar communication device and the scrotal epidermis, but sometimes they can’t even wash their own clothes.

But these pharmacies. They’re slinging billions of dollars worth of little medicines or poisons depending on whether or not they were misprescribed, they are people with analytical skills, who appreciate logic, who do things and get paid for it …

But sometimes they say things that makes me want to lift the blood-pressure checker and smack them through the back wall and fold up all the papers in the office and paper cut them in the webs of their fingers then walk to the produce aisle, grab seven lemons and a lemon squeezer and squeeze them into the wounds.

All my mommy wanted—as was prescribed by the doctor—was 300 mg tablets, not capsules, because she has bad reactions to capsules for whatever reason. But they gave her capsules any way, so when she said “I can’t take them,” the lady at the desk said “There’s nothing I can do about it, the insurance won’t clear it again.”

Clearly. That. Makes. Perfect. Sense. Insert. Sexist. Joke. Her. About. Women. Not. Being. Able. To. Vote. For. So. Long. Then. Apologize. For. The insensitivity. To. The. Struggle. You. Chauvinistic. Pig. All. You. Care. About. Is. Titties. And. Ass.

No. I love music too, that’s why I make it
[youmayclickhereandlistenbecauseiloveyou].

So. My brother goes down to speak with the lady, she says there’s nothing she can do, he says call your manager, the manager comes out undusting his coat, he also says there’s nothing we can do.

Oh. Then she should just take the medication she has allergic reactions to. That makes more sense than the cents the companies handing these drugs out make. Or. Maybe. They. Don’t. I like these fragmented sentences.

So just so you know, anytime someone says there’s nothing they can do about it, they’re lying, because there is. It’s the same reason why when you take an item to the check-out desk with a certain price on it, you can talk it down even though at first they’ll say “There’s nothing I can do.”

Wait. You're going to sue me for ... what?

So an ex that was never named tried to sue me. What? Woman. I knew the mental fabric that held your sanity together was stretched thin, but this? Non-sense? Are you out of your mind?

She claimed defamation of character, but I never used her name. You don’t know who she is. You’ve never met her. You could never identify her to make fun of her for my saying that she’s crazy. Is it even wrong to call a woman crazy?

Is it wrong to call any one crazy? Of course it’s just dismissive, but, understand that I feared for my life. Things like “I don’t know what I’d do if you cheated,” don’t make for comfortable conversation.

Especially since I was cheating on her. =) With her younger sister who was over 18.

Sike. That is an untrue story, but it isn’t far-fetched. People that get shot for shooting first have been suing the shooters who shot in self-defense and are making money from it. It’s preposterous.

A man was fishing, fell into a lake and was drowning. There was a house on the shore with people that saw, so they rushed out, pulled him to shore and revived him. He got up to walk to into the house and slipped on gravel, breaking his arm in the process. He sued the family and won.

Wait. What? They just saved your life. He was drunk, for the record. And he got away with it. Wow. This is crazy. This is what Americans are doing to each other? Imagine what we’re doing to people outside of our borders.

I sat on my balls

So it turns out that you don’t need a terribly large genital region to be able to sit on them—UNLESS I’M BEING UNECESSARILY MODEST IN WHICH CASE I AM D’ MADER PAKER.

But in the event that my initial hypothesization is correct becuz I m cawleg edukationed … then more than 50% of my fellow penis-bearing homosapiens can agree, that sometimes, on those days that you just want to sit on the desk chair in the dining room in front of the computer while the toaster is toasting the two slices of bread for the turkey-ham sandwich with sliced onions and cut avocado you’re about to make, sometimes, the genitalia folds up underneath and gets sat on.

This, clearly, is not a normal feeling to be feeling, for the balls are gentle like ocean breezes splashing across your forehead. The forehead not the balls. I do not know what it’s like to have balls on your forehead. But I’ve told all my white friends that the whole tea-bagging movement—that should be more of a concern to Middle America than violence in video games—is unacceptable.

It hurt a lot though. Getting punched or tapped in the balls is one horrible sensation. But sitting on them … is eighteen times worse … because gravity is involved and then you slide and grind the nuts together like trying to make peanut butter out of the vas deferens. It. Hurt. A lot.

So please do not sit on your balls. Or my balls.

There's nothing wrong with fat kids

There’s something wrong with their dumb ass parents who don’t spank them any more then wonder why they’re throwing fits in Albertson’s and won’t stop no matter how many times they get threatened with time-out.

People are poor, they don’t have time. They’re going broke off of gas (which wouldn’t be that crazy if they just took the metro), they’re working and not communicating with their spouses then opening up about the problems with the secretary and getting into that strain: should I do it? Should I not? And then they think love runs out … when it doesn’t … it was just beautiful people doing stupid things.

I blame McDonald’s for everything. You might think this does not make sense because parents have the responsibility to feed their kids right … but let’s leave that aside for fifty-five seconds.

Happy Meals. Are the source. Of every. Fragmented sentence. And. Fat child. In the United States. Of America. Some of you know my history, I was a big boy back in the day. I was over-dosing on chicken grease and Big & Tasty’s. And thankfully my mommy didn’t let me fool myself. She didn’t let me get the Diet Coke because the artificial sweetner is bad for the arteries … … … ?

But then an amazing thing happened. I started running, and walking, and being active. And suddenly … I was healthier. Oh, I thought to myself. So maybe I can eat the Big & Tasty’s every once and a while and just run. So I did. So. Sure … we can say parents should make their kids be more active. But they don’t have time. Destroying a relationship and shredding the moral fiber of their children is much more important.

… I love you.

Are good rappers not selling because they suck?

... at marketing?
As appeared on www.defsounds.com, for all your real hip hop needs!

Nas came out with an anthem. Since then, every one has become the expert...pointing fingers at every other rapper and movement because album sales aren’t what they used to be. The problem with all the barbershop talk and internet nail salon gossip is that most of the time, people are failing to see the bigger picture.

Hip Hop isn’t the only genre in danger, it’s the music business as a whole. Sales have been going down considerably in the last few years—labels are having to get smarter with their releases and it’s getting harder and harder to go platinum!

Labels started selling less when they released artists who weren’t as magnificent as their predecessors. Believe it or not, Defsounds readers, there was a time when you could hear an artist’s single, go out and buy the album and bump it from beginning to end. Now you’re lucky if the single is worth buying.

So, with the sudden influx of mediocre artists two-stepping their way across the music scene, we can’t help but feel like labels are getting lazy and putting out garbage because it’s the easiest thing to do with the least amount of work. Sike. No it isn’t. Wait. Yes it is, but “harder” is the wrong word. Labels are having to work for that platinum status. And that’s a good thing.

There was a Golden Era in music, where every album was a piece of artistry sewn into the fabric of foreverness. Now it’s some whack shit slapping you across the face, kind of.

The assumption is right. On one hand, it is less work, but that’s because the artists they’re picking up are people that are busting their asses to make a check. It’s not just about a catchy chorus and inventing a new dance every six to eight hours depending on weather conditions in the South and Midwest. It’s about what these “bubble gum” artists are doing behind the scenes. They’re promoting their asses off. Performing over 200 days a year. Out on the road doing shows, from club to amphitheater to House of Blues. And why? Because they understand that they have to compensate for their mediocrity. Their work ethic is sick.

What about your favorite MC 5000? As soon as he gets a deal and doesn’t sell—or doesn’t get a deal and doesn’t sell—he’s assuming that it’s because they only want the cookie cutter image. Let me note here that I use “he” as an example because women don’t rap. April fools.

Most of the time, and we all know it’s true, MC 5000 doesn’t have that same willingness to slave over his music because he’s assuming that the game is based on skill alone. It’s an “I’m the shit, I shouldn’t have to do anything but present my music,” type of mentality that leaves them stuck. Ego is a big thing in the Hip Hop world, you have to establish yourself as the sheeeeeeeeyiznit. But that’s getting in the way of getting a deal since MC 5000 is too intergalactic to try and connect with his public.

So maybe if all our favorite rappers would unbunch the silk panties they have stuck up their asses, and understand that in order to get picked up and pushed by a label you have to prove to them that you won’t be a waste of their money—something we wouldn’t blame any normal person for doing.

Besides, Souljah Boy isn’t as whack as ya’ll make him out to be. He was 17, making dance music. I love Immortal Technique, but I’m not trying to get down to Dance With the Devil. I’d rather objectify that woman and Superman her.

Immortal Technique sold 30,000 records with no distribution, for the record. Proof that dope stuff sells, you just have to hustle your ass off half as hard as he did to make a decent living.

Proper Oreo Etiquette

Oreos are no joke. They’re amazing. They’re everything this country needs to be—when two different colors realize they can not only live side by side, but that they have to mesh because they taste so much sweeter.

There are three things in this world that leave my heart singing to the sky:

1) Physics
2) Women
3) Oreo cookies.

Three is a good number. It’s the same number I’d use to describe things that make my heart sing that are not of this world.

There’s been a trend taking root in our country, however. I’m seeing kids walk around with Oreos in their hands like they were tinfoil. Oreos are not tinfoil, they are Oreos, they are metaphors for life and Love, for what the white house would look like if Obama and Hilary ran together.

You can’t just snack on the cookiemunches like they were triscuits. Oreos are a sit down meal. If for nothing else, then for the fact that they jack your teeth up. I can’t stop laughing whenever I see people walking around looking like they took a bite out of the street, like they just ate mud rocks, like they stood behind an elephant that had diarrhea as it sharted and they were grinning the whole time so that dookie pieces got caught along the gums and in between the teeth.

If we’re not going to respect diversity, the least we can do is respect the Oreo. The yummy, cream-filled, Oreo.

Cats or Dogs?

United States of America, I want to slap you. Not the country as a whole, the land has done nothing to me. In fact, that land has done a lot FOR me. It grows corn, splurges water, grows trees to turn CO2 into O2. I think.

You, however, citizens. You dumb, dumb, citizens. You make me angry. One might assume it’s because of the social irresponsibility, how we as a nation are not informing ourselves on the issues, getting sucked in by rhetoric and non-sense, pitting ideas against each other that don’t have to be at odds.

But you’re wrong, for the most part. I don’t care who you vote for, or who you don’t vote for. I’m concerned with this issue of cats and dogs. Or shall I say:

Cats OR Dogs

Dun, dun, dun~!!! Some people like dogs because they say they are loyal, because they will not turn on you, because they are friends, because they LOVE. Others like cats because they say … I don’t know what they say. I just know why people don’t like cats. Because cats are stuck up, because they only show affection when they want something, because they think they own the house.

Hmmm. Sounds like I could offer some insight on the fact that cats are feminized and therefore criminalized or ask if this is just an extension of sexism …

Dot dot dot. Or maybe I can see you’re all wrong. That sheep are in fact dope, and that after going to the San Diego County Fair and petting sheep, and seeing them get shaved down to the bare booticles, I can say I want a sheep ranch. So instead of making money to fix infrastructures the government won’t, I will buy land in Colorado, build a fence and herd my sheep.

I would leave my 99 to find one. I work well with wood as well. Subliminal religiosity.

Matios, when is Facebook Stalking Permissable?

Well, fictional person who does not exist but is just me asking myself a question to act like the article is more personal. Stalking is never something you should be involved in, because it is not only an invasion of privacy, but demolishes a stalkee’s already thin emotional fiber. With that in mind, please remember: it’s only stalking if you get caught.

I met a young lady at a party once because she fell for my trap. I was speaking Spanish to my cousin because I know dem ladeez be luvin’ that u knoooow! PIMPIIIIIIIIIIN GHAHAHAHAHAHA>! JFIA F.

And so, after I hung up, she walked over and said hello, we shook hands, exchanged names, smiled, flirted, she touched my hair, I touched her hair, she said she loved mine, I said I loved hers more. It was beautiful.

Before she leaves she says “Do you know so&so?” I say of course, to which she replies “We should all get together and kick it sometime.” Sure, I think to myself.

What’s important to note is that I was invited in. Sure, her ex-boyfriend used to upper-cut her for no dinner, and the one before that got jealous of the broom-stick if she held it too long. But she was able to let that go. She saw me as a man who was not responsible for the fourteen Kleenex boxes she has to buy industrial sized at Costco for every week of the year. El Negro was allowed to do the rain dance of Love in the circle that is her soul.

So in order to keep the line of communication open, I added her on Facebook! I learned about her likes, dislikes, favorite movies, favorite quotes—the one about shooting for the moon and hitting the stars and the other one about lying in the arms of who you love, cheating death, and what not, and the one about how important friends are and how we only truly have few of them.

But that was it. I had to be respectful of her space and learn about her not through this cheap representation of her inner-self but through conversation at Starbucks drinking over-priced hot chocolate because we don’t drink coffee. I guess.

Oh and I looked at all her photos. Her 27 albums. The 1,990 she was tagged in, 459 of which she tagged herself.

But my verdict: it’s okay if you meet the girl first, because then you know what to say when you brain-wash her into love. Or him. I don’t want to be sexist.

Chastity = You're Fat?

I did not know the day would come when I would be butt ass naked in my girlfriend’s bed, wondering to myself if I’m willing to go through with this, if I’m down to toss aside my beliefs because my penis is so filled with blood that I want to plant my virginity inside my girlfriend’s vagina and grow a baby.

There I was, my scrotal epidermis exposed, the air-conditioner humming like Isaac Hayes in the background, my peepee shrinking into the uncircumsized shell sometimes then sprouting like a teenie-weenie vine, nervous and ready kind of, kissing her mouth, afraid to let myself down … unsure of where it’s going.

We talked about it before, kn’amsaying. We agreed before we got into it “Look, no sex in the champagne room. Unless we get married.” We were down, I was down, we were all down with not going down. Not even a hint of sexualismality!

But there we were, I was naked in her bed, the agreement obviously thrown out the window. What was worse, the reason the whole thing came up was because she said how she hated guys who said they’d respect her body, but ask for sex any way. She said she wanted a guy who could say no, who could look for reasons to be together besides dipping the stick in the cocoa-butter canal.

I was him. I was going back on my word though. So she got off the bed, I thought long and hard about what was going on … then I decided … No. We cannot do this. This cannot be. We can love each other without the sex. So I crawled out the bed, pulled my draws back up—happy that I chose one of the newer pairs that didn’t have the skid stains from years of too many jalapeños—and said “We don’t have to do this.”

Of course she was taken aback. But it’s okay, we’re keeping our promise alive, I thought. I’m sticking to my beliefs, and breaking down her prejudices. Then we talk about it weeks later and she asks …

Did you stop because you think I’m fat?

You get stomped like a herd of hippo

I know, fellow inhabiters of the 3rd rock from the sun, I know. You hate rap music because you feel it talks about the same stuff all the time. I know. I don't care, it's still commercially viable, so it's going to stay around.

And I know you feel like it's a horrible example for our children ... but it's okay ... there's a reason why urban vernacular is often called coded language. It's because it's coded so that not every one can understand.

That is in the nature of words. They are symbols representative of ideas. Ideas we all have. The words "hungry" and "hambre" are translated and transliterated into the same thing. It's the same idea. The ... same ... i ... de ... a ... fragmented ... words ... and ... thoughts.

So we all know the importance in looking at the bigger picture. We don't read a book and take it for what's just on the page. Authors get points across without telling us out right. So. That. You . May. Have. A. Better. Understanding.

Rap is a metaphor for any one who has nothing. It's proof that if you have some semblance of talent and a sense of marketability, that you can come up. Except, instead of buying a $100,000 chain ... take out 10 mortgages with a down payment of $10,000 each and hold the land.

That's really what we see when we see rappers. The American Dream.

I love you. I accept your apology.

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Impossible questions asked by impossible friends

I was once asked “Would you have gay sex to save my life?” What, I thought to myself, Why would I have gay sex to save someone’s life? I don’t see the connection. But this is college, we’re expected to have open minds and accept that every one is right in their own way because truth is relative and true only when it’s true to you because society has been established powers that be racism sexism et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Eff Sociology. Eff you if you like it. Eff is short for Effervescenism. It means I love you in a Germanic tongue of Northern Nova Scotia.

But you’ve had an impossible scenarios presented to yourself to:

If you had to choose between getting shot 38 times and surviving or being thrown into a desert from a blimp and surviving, which one would it be? Umm. Neither.

If you had to cheat on your wife, would it be with her sister or her mother? Uh. I prefer my penis attached to my body so ... neither.

If you were the last people on Earth and you had to reproduce, would it be with your brother or your father? Hm. Well. Both my brothers are pretty and my Dad was handsome in his day. But I'm a heterosexual male, and they are also male so we can't reproduce. If you ask between my mother or my sister I will stab you. Straight up.

The fact that people are exercising their sick imaginations is a good thing—it means they’re thinking for once. The problem arises when your friend gets upset that you don’t want to play along and answer the stupid question.

Some might argue that there is no such thing as a stupid question, that these people are simply exploring the inner-workings of their mind, that they are broadening their horizons, considering things the rest of us don’t, and to them I say fine. You’re right. Good. Think about things. Metaphysics. Homoeroticism. Here nor there.

But that’s not where it stops. The questions get poised around their “well-being”. They’re just trying to see how much of a friend you are by asking about something that wouldn’t happen to see if you would be willing to go through with it in the name of friendship.

I said no. I would not have sexual intercourse with another man to save the person in question’s life. And that was mean. Obviously. Because I wasn’t down to get down on the other side with the same side … because I’m a bad friend … obviously.

Texas man cleared in fatal shootings of suspected burglars

Here's a link to the story, but this is a quick rundown of what happened. Two men were allegedly stealing from a house. The neighbor was in his house, he saw the men breaking in. He called the cops, grabbed a rifle and said “I’m going out there.” The cops said “No. Don’t.” He said “No, I’m going.”

He walked outside, the men were running away, and he killed them. Excuse me, one of them was allegedly running away. The other was allegedly walking towards him. And he killed them.

Now, I could inject race into the discussion, but instead of that, I’ll level the playing field and say that they were all green-skinned homosapiens.

Personally, as you all know, I’m not a green-skinned homosapien, nor was I raised as one, so I cannot say how they do or do not act. What I can say, is that if the only difference between me and these Greeners (as we refer to them in Southern California) is the type of melanin that distinguishes our colors, then a green-skinned homosapien in TEXAS, of the United States of America, upon seeing another green-skinned homosapien with a RIFLE, would surely run the other way.

Allow me to repeat what they are alleging: one green-skinned thief was running away, while the other unarmed green-skinned thief walked towards the green-skinned neighbor who was holding a rifle and was therefore shot.

So. Then. Kn’amsaying. That’s crazy. I am not a journalist, I can say that. It felt good, let me repeat that: that’s crazy. The case got taken before a Grand Jury and the man was let off. Of course, it was expected, because this is after all … Texas.

No disrespect to our brothers and sisters of Texan ancestry. It’s just that … the kind of history of the state … being taken from Mexico because the Texan citizens wanted to LEGALIZE slavery, makes me suspicious.

However, because I am a believer in progress and not just complaining about the evil we as men do, I would like to request that the wall being built between the U.S. and Mexico start in Texas. I used to be against it. But now I would like to protect our brothers and sisters from South of the border from these Texas Rangers.

I still love you.

Love the Brown Skin

Matios loves the brown skin. That caramelized sun-kissed stretch of cinnamon toasted brown sugar roasted magnificence. It’s just so … beautiful. Melanin is dope. A lot of it, a little of it, whatever. I don’t discriminate. I just want to make clear; when I’m walking through the mall looking for a pair of shoes to over-compensate for a youth below the federal poverty line, and I see a woman with a two-tone face:

As in her neck is darker than her face because it looks like Redman kicked her window open before she left the house and slapped her with a handful of baby powder … it makes me sad.

The butter-pecan, dark-chocolate, creamy, crisp, blend of browness is beautiful. Why must she try to hide it beneath a layer of whale-fat and rouge from Sephora for $24? The picture is actually Cheek Venom which must be 50 times better for the skin.

What about the brownness? Matios loves it. I can’t get enough of it. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t shy so I could reach out and kiss every brown-skinned woman I saw … on the cheek because I’m scared of catching mononucleosis—plus if she were married I would feel guilty for kissing her any where else. I respect the sanctity of marriage, America. Don’t try to brain-wash me with your polygamist ways.

To all the light-skinned women, I love you too. To prove it: here’s one of my favorite songs in the universe. In French. Right? I’m crossing boundaries. And borders. Like my mommy when she came here from Mexico.

It's called Habanera as sung by Maria Callas. Step your Opera Game up.