Mosaic is a student-led literary journal publishing fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art created by undergraduate students at Texas A&M University-San Antonio. The journal celebrates diverse perspectives, experiences, and creativity and offers students a space to express themselves as artists. Mosaic will do more than entertain; it will shape the culture of undergraduate lives on campus and will inspire students to write and create honestly and fearlessly.
Mosaic is looking to create a raw, honest, and eclectic collection of the human experience. Expressive stories of life and death, pain and resilience, guilt and innocence. Stories that dissect the complexities of what it means to be human and what it means to change. The ups and downs of life displayed for all to see and learn from.
Acknowledgments
Mosaic would like to recognize to the following organizations and individuals who generously contributed their time, resources, and expertise to make this project possible:
Spanish Language Faculty Editor
Dr. Elena Foulis
Volunteer Readers
Denisse A. Soto Castillo, Emily Drees, Erly Garcia, Tristan Govea, Camila Teran Mendez, Lionel Mendez, Tresjure Cross Mills, Chelsea Narvaiz, Candelaria Nieves Perez, Jesus Rios, and Louis R.
Special Thanks
Dr. Katherine Bridgman and the staff of The Writing, Language, and Digital Composing Center (WLDCC)
Dr. Katherine Gillen, Julie Hebert, and The Department of Language, Literature, and Arts (LLA)
Jaguar Ink Society
Professor Robert Cavazos
Professor Laurie Ann Guerrero
The University Library at Texas A&M-San Antonio
Letter From the Editors
Dear Readers,
Four months ago, we, a collection of students and our professors of ENGL 3303: Professional Editing, convened to engage in a semester-wide project to create the second issue of Mosaic. As budding writers, designers, and editors, we were eager to experience the publication process firsthand, and put together something amazing to show the world. Throughout our time reading about the thoughts and lives of our peers, we came to understand the importance of the individual yet varied human experience within the city we call home.
Every piece you are about to experience in this magazine reflects the many individual cultures, joys, and tragedies experienced by the students of this university. Stories plucked from an endless sea of tales and histories, voices and visions, untold and unwitnessed by the world, immortalized on our printed page.
Our magazine has been crafted with thoughtful insight. From line breaks to visuals, each submission was handled with care to ensure that every artist and author was showcased to their fullest potential. We spent our time engaging with editing techniques and conventions that would guide our decisions for the issue and, in the end, have produced an eclectic collection of works that we are proud to present to you.
For their efforts and contributions to making this magazine possible, we would like to thank our counterparts on the Mosaic design team for creating the visual identity of our second issue, curating the artwork selections, and making our publication the greatest presenting vessel for our peers’ voices that it can be.
Lastly, we’d like to thank our readers. You are, and always have been, the heart of our mission for the magazine.
Sincerely,
The Editors
“Stories plucked from an endless sea of tales and histories, voices and visions, untold and unwitnessed by the world, immortalized on our printed page.”
Luz de la Virgen de Guadalupe Emmanuel Jaimes Ramirez
Maria M. Mejia Rivas
Editors’ Note
Undergraduate writing featured in Mosaic has been edited as lightly as possible to honor the artistic voices of our contributors. The opinions conveyed in Mosaic are those of our contributors and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, staff, faculty, administrators, or Texas A&M University-San Antonio.
The creative work featured in Mosaic contains mature themes, imagery, and language that may be upsetting or distressing to some readers. Please take care when reading.
Hueco
Débora Montserrat García Rivera
2024, Acrylic Paint, Color Pencil, and Crayon
Lengua
Denisse A. Soto Castillo
She’s got her own rhythm, combinations of places she refuses to forget. She mixes and blends how she pleases and never lets me know when.
They say, Say it like this. No, no, no, like thiiis. Thaaanks, I say— They stretch it out, So I stretch it too.
She says three like tree, and someone laughs— Was that a joke?
Another smirk when she says world, and it tumbles out like whirled
She tries to catch these sounds, but they slip from her grip—whiiirled like it’s too thin for her to hold.
It’s not that I’m trying to sound different or wrong, but my lengua has her own tone.
I mispronounce a few words along the way; Does that really change what I have to say? Say it with me, len-gua
Leeengua
The Invention
Candelaria Nieves Perez
My Mayan ancestors invented the zero, Perhaps to describe the emptiness that a loved one leaves behind Does zero ever yearn for number one Can it travel
Does it exist between the spaces when you and I are apart Does it bear witness to what my body aches for
My ancestors experienced five cardinal directions North, South, East, West and the Center Where one exists How could they know You, the axis to all my time zones Fluid pathways of destiny and prophecy
My Mayan ancestors believed humans are cyclical, Made of corn and blood
Speaking of my need to consume and birth you Among the arithmetic of the stars
Among the tongues of our ancestors
The invention of you and me Will exist Eternally
Portrait of Sister
Olivia Angel Garcia
2024, Acrylic Paint
Lo Que No Soy
Débora Montserrat García Rivera
2024, Photography
Días Pesados
Yasmine Ramirez
Hay días en que me siento pesada.
Escucho a mis padres decir: “Nada en esta vida es fácil.”
Y sigo adelante.
Pero luego, mis hombros caen de nuevo.
Siento que mi espalda va a romperse.
Que yo voy a romperme.
Pero—
“Nada en esta vida es fácil.”
Un día,
Me tropecé.
Y me rompí en mil pedazos.
Fue más vergonzoso que doloroso.
Así que,
Me armé como pude— Pegamento, cinta, y fuerza bruta.
Con tierra, pasto, ramas, Y un chicle pegado.
Y así me quedé.
Entro por la puerta de mi casa, Donde sé que mi amá
Me estará esperando.
“Hola, mija, ¿Cómo te fue en la escuela?”
“Bien, amá. ¿Cómo está?”
Pulled Home
2024, Collage and Embroidery
Erik Estrada
Is It Okay
Angie
Elias
Is it okay to feel sad now that you are gone?
I miss you. You were taken too soon.
Is it okay to feel shocked now that you are gone? I hugged you just two weeks ago. Now I can’t ever again?
Is it okay to feel numb now that you are gone?
There are no more tears to cry. This experience was traumatizing, but it happened and now I am here.
Is it okay to feel distant from reality now that you are gone?
I no longer have a dad. Who do I talk to now?
Is it okay to feel angry now that you are gone?
How could you? You have children who you left behind.
Is it okay to feel guilty now that you are gone?
That was a heartbreaking decision. Did I make the right one?
Is it okay to feel scared now that you are gone? You’re no longer here. What’s my life going to look like now?
Is it okay to feel relieved now that you are gone?
That was terrifying. The cuts, blood, and bandages. I’m glad you’re no longer in pain.
Is it okay to feel grateful for you now that you are gone?
You were sincere, silly, and assertive. There is no one else like you. There never will be.
It is okay to feel sad, shocked, numb, and distant. It is okay to feel angry, guilty, and scared. It is okay to feel relieved and grateful.
It is okay to feel the emotions that overtake me.
Antigua
Diamond Hercules
2024, Collage and Acrylic Paint
Still Life of a Cup, a Chain, and a Crystal Diamond Hercules
2024, Acrylic Paint
Dents
Joshua Zirkle
There are dents in the garage of my donor’s house. He accidentally drove into it one night, his depth perception clouded by exhaustion. He had been working extra hours, picking up more jobs because insurance wouldn’t cover the busted-out back window of his old Nissan Quest that the neighborhood kids had shattered with a baseball. But before he could afford to replace the window, he bought a metal detector to search for a necklace he had lost in the grass of the front yard when its clasp broke. He never found it, so he returned the detector and got his money back. The window was fixed shortly after. The dents were, too.
I have a strong, distinct connection with three films from my childhood: Hope Floats, Where the Heart Is, and Fried Green Tomatoes. I remember being five or six, sitting on my mother’s green couch in our dingy apartment while one of these movies played on our television. My mother, armed with a box of tissues, a blanket, and a penchant for bed-rotting, sat beside me, staring intently at the screen. When one film ended, she would either get up or ask me to switch the VHS tape. This was shortly after she left my donor. We watched these movies, one after the other, all day long, until it was time for bed. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was healing.
One night, she got me out of bed, packed me in the car, and we drove. I don’t know what time it was, but it was late enough that the sun was down and the streets were empty. We drove for nearly two hours, eventually arriving in Smithville, a small town near Austin. We pulled into the driveway of a house I recognized but couldn’t quite place.
“There it is!” my mom exclaimed, the happiest I’d seen her in months.
We sat in the car, staring at the house. I was silent, unsure of what I was looking at. And then it clicked—I had seen this house before. It was the house from Hope Floats—real, right there in front of me. I didn’t know why we were there. I still don’t, but I know it meant something to my mom. The impulsiveness of getting up and going, of driving almost two hours just to see a place from a movie—somehow, it was important to her. We sat there for half an hour. She cried and wished we could go inside. Then, we backed out and drove home, arriving back in the dead of night to our apartment, which was shrouded in mist from a slight rain. A good night’s sleep sacrificed for my mother’s desire to see this house, in person, right then and there. She was healing.
This became a common trend, my mom waking me up in the middle of the night to go on spontaneous road trips. Once, she got my sister and me into the car and we drove to New Orleans. We went on a ghost tour, took pictures in the French Quarter, and acted as tourists in a town we’d never been. It was an escape for her, even if just for a little while. We stayed for only a couple of days before we had to squeeze back into my mom’s little red Ford ZX2 and head back home. My mom was doing the things she wanted to do, because she could— because she was healing.
She met my donor when my sister was only six years old, the same age I was when she left him. All the wooing and love-bombing hadn’t prepared her for what came next: arrests for selling weed, then for selling coke. Bail money on top of bail money. Drunken nights. Pissing on my grandparents’ cars. The constant belittling. Dumping condiments onto the carpet and purposefully creating messes for my mom to clean. Constantly getting kicked out of concerts. Dragging him out of bars when he got shitfaced and belligerent. Pulling him away from public fights so he could be violent in private. So many bruises. So many black eyes. Inviting his brother, my uncle, to join in. Everything about my mom, even merely existing, came with a
punishment, the severity always to be determined.
Even after she left him, I’d be woken up in the middle of the night to go get him. The woman he eventually married, who later left him for the same reasons my mom had, would open the door, nude from the waist up, revealing her own bruises and scars, fresh and old. The apartment would be trashed. Holes in the walls, dishes broken, televisions shattered, tables on their sides. Yet there was my mother, picking up the pieces because she knew how to deal with him. She would pack him in her passenger seat, passed out and reeking of piss, soon to forget the destruction he’d caused, his only concern upon waking to be how he had gotten back home at all. We’d drive him to his townhome, where she would leave him on his couch to sleep, locking the door behind her with a key his girlfriend had loaned her. He was safe when he was unconscious. The damage was already done. The calm after the storm.
Around two years before I cut my donor out of my life—about six years after my trip to Smithville—I arrived at his house for my biweekly stay. By this time, he had met a new woman, whom he would also marry, and is still married to today. I noticed large dents in his garage.
The back window of his van was busted out. His necklace, the one he’d always worn my entire life, was gone. I asked him about it, and as a naïve child, I believed his explanations. In reality, he had come home drunk a few nights before and fought with his now-wife. He dragged her outside by her hair and repeatedly slammed her head against the garage door, then through the back window of the van, shattering it. As she fought back, she clawed at his throat, tearing the jewelry from his neck and flinging it into the front yard, where it still sits today. A small artifact of his violence, buried in the dirt for some future-world archaeologist to find, never knowing why or how it got there. Her arm was broken, wrapped tight in a pink cast that complimented well her black knee brace, one she had to wear regularly, even still by the time I finally left.
And how embarrassing, too, that I had believed the neighborhood kids had broken the window. That I had teased them about it, and they had played along, knowing what had happened the entire time. One of them, my closest friend in the neighborhood, had witnessed everything. Safe in his own front lawn, he watched his parents
try to pull my donor off his now-wife. He never told me. I never knew why. I only learned the truth years later, during a heart-to-heart with my sister. She had been there, too, trying to pry them apart, until the police eventually arrived.
I realize now that those three films my mom and I would watch helped her process her trauma and grief and move past what she’d gone through. I revisited them later, as an adult, trying to see what she saw. I contemplated each one, contextualizing them to the words she had shared with me about her experiences. She was Birdee from Hope Floats, finding love and optimism in a new life after escaping her old one. She was Towanda, the strong and fearless warrior alter ego of Idgie in Fried Green Tomatoes that empowers women to take control of their lives, to leave their abusers, and to do the things they want to do, like driving to unknown towns and taking late-night road trips to Louisiana. She was Novalee from Where the Heart Is, a young mom abandoned by the father of her child, who rebuilds her life with the love and support of those around her, eventually finding the man of her dreams.
She wove these films together to create her own story, shaping her life into a fairytale where she’s now the Queen of her own castle, her own metaphorical Hope Floats house. Like in the garage door, the large dents my donor left in my mother didn’t last forever. She became stronger, wiser, and happier; unwilling to accept mistreatment, always leaving at the first hint of it. She hammered them out and became a better person, more alive and fruitful than she’d ever been before. But the smaller dents, the ones she couldn’t hammer out, remain a part of her forever. She is still healing. She always will be. And that’s just the way it goes. There’s an acceptance in that.
Memory Tree
Angelynna Fonseca-Puente
2024, Acrylic Paint and Polymer Clay
I’m Sorry Too
Harith Harizal
2024, Acrylic Paint and Polymer Clay
“When
both of your parents leave their country to give you a life of comfort, you naturally think that leaving their household is the most selfish thing you can do. However, I did it to save my relationship with my mother, whom I
dearly love.”o. Et et,
Pensamientos Raros
Camila Teran Mendez
My mother told me something during the holidays that rattled around in my brain for days afterwards. We were arguing about how I “treat her house like a hotel” and I “cannot be going in and out without notice.” It was our usual dance: us going through years-old spats one after the other, a seemingly never-ending fight. Eventually, I told her that the argument would not have begun if I was a man. We continued on, her insisting that it absolutely would have, but then she grew quiet. She was pensive as she said, “Camila desde que tienes doce años siempre has tenido pensamientos raros, y has dicho cosas muy…feministas.” Her face curled up at the last word, saying it full of spite. My mother is a feminist, but despises the word because of the rhetoric surrounding it. I’ve tried to explain this to her many times, but she still never uses the word in reference to herself. We’re always on opposing sides, holding up mirrors to each other and hating what we see. Opposites, and yet exactly the same. In order to heal and love myself, I had to go against everything I had been taught and leave my family behind to go to school in San Antonio.
When both of your parents leave their country to give you a life of comfort, you naturally think that leaving their household is the most selfish thing you can do. However, I did it to save my relationship with my mother, whom I dearly love. By letting this distance between us grow, I was able to forgive the both of us. I found out the kind of person I could be when my thoughts were encouraged rather than stifled and when I allowed my “pensamientos raros” to be swirled into my writings. I have found peace in being unapologetically myself. I have more patience when speaking to my mother, speaking truths to her that I would’ve never dared to speak if I had stayed.
I always knew that I would be leaving home as soon as I was able to. I was terrified, but still left despite all my fears. Of course, I have grappled with this decision and ran myself ragged in circles re-thinking it. How can something that hurt so much in the beginning be self-love? I realized that the only reason I felt that pain was because of a cycle that happens every time I go home and leave again.
The daughters of Mexican immigrants are not supposed to leave. They stay, they find a nice boy to marry, they move to a house five minutes away, and they make their family their whole world. By rejecting these ideas, I felt that I had betrayed everything I knew. Forgiving myself for that was not easy, but I did what had to be done to end the war within myself.
The first Christmas I returned home, my mother and I went out to run errands. We ended up in a horrible fight, both of us screaming and crying in her car. We were both extremely hurt, her because I had left, me because I felt that hatred clouded our entire relationship. She ended up confessing to me that she had also wanted to leave her home when she turned eighteen, her parents told her no, and that was that. She told me that I was brave for doing it without her approval. “Camila, tú tienes una fortaleza que yo nunca he tenido en mi vida, y te admiro mucho por hacer esto, aunque lo odio.” I hold those words so close to my heart and think of them often. She didn’t want me to leave, but she understood me perfectly. We both saw each other as women for the first time, not mother and daughter. I believed that I was being selfish, but that decision led to my freedom. Leaving is what led us to that freedom—words I would have never heard if I had stuck around.
“We both saw each other as women for the first time, not mother and daughter. I believed that I was being selfish, but that decision led to my freedom.”o. Et et,
Knit
Iliana Alyssa Rodriguez
2023, Yarn and Wire
Self-Portrait
Angelynna Fonseca-Puente
2024, Acrylic Paint
Gravity-AntiGravity-Gravity
Draven Lee
I am nothing, just as you are— clouds on the overpass, gray and full, unaware of our intent, but omniscient of our movements. And unknowingly, He gives birth.
I am nothing, the flavorless wind, the crack in the sidewalk. No, I'm wrong. I am the rain— A single drop, torn from my home, the ocean, and forced to fall, yearning for my time to evaporate, to return to my true home, the clouds, the sea.
Isn't it so selfish?
Next to me, you also fall— and unexpectedly, unknowingly, we, out of billions of molecules, link.
Are you also nothing?
The tear that kisses my cheek?
The brisk shower? No, that's not it either. You are the rain— a heavy drop, brought to me, to us, falling forcefully to the earth, growing anew, giving purpose and life but sometimes breaking, splintering, flooding, and in the end, consumed by the ground, doing as much as you can before we return to the clouds, to our father— Selflessly.
We are the rain, short-lived, and if you even blink, you’ll miss it. Behind, in front, and on both sides at all times. A drop so small, from an endless abyss, worthless and meaningless to you, and in the grand scale of things, to everyone.
The displacement of our souls, a gift— for in this fall, we are remade, blessed and broken, woven into the fabric of the whole. We fall with bliss, and we fall with sorrow, knowing we are part of something far greater, and knowing we must return— to the clouds, to the sea, to the beginning, to the end.
Take a bit of me, And I’ll take a bit of you as well.
Life in Progress
Erik Estrada
2024, Multimedia Sculpture
How to See an Owl
Scout Glenn
1. Facial symmetry is a constant: humans, dogs, cats, lizards. Owls do not have symmetry. Their ears are lopsided and skewed, Still they have the best hearing of any animal ever tested.
2. These funky feathered fiends evolved velvet on their wings to fly silently; they sacrificed waterproofing for this. Just like any insect or non-aves, if they get too wet, they can no longer fly.
4. The barn owl doesn’t hoot or holler or caterwaul or howl or chirrup, they scream. A loud, earsplitting, heart-wrenching, stomach-dropping, screak.
3. The strigiform facial disk is like a satellite dish. Pushing sound into their ears making their hearing all the better. Great Grey’s hearing is so precise they can hear a mouse under up to two feet of snow and ice.
5. You can barely look over your shoulder—can Humans can turn their heads 160-180
shoulder—can just barely see behind you. 160-180 degrees. Strigidae can turn their heads 270.
6. Every group of animals has its name: Flock, Herd, Pack, Pride, Band, School, Pod, College, Lounge, Nest.
A group of owls is called a parliament.
7. Owls are notoriously protective of their young. Attacking any and every passerby. Every spring. Two years ago, a woman a street over had to get upwards of 15 stitches in her head because a pair of owls nested in the tree of her front lawn.
8. Birds in the Strigidae family are well known for their cannibalism. They will eat anything and everything that they can get their talons on. Even their own siblings and cousins. Sometimes even hawks as well. Owls are brutally opportunistic.
10. They are collectors. Not all of them. But some, like the burrowing owl cripple their prey and collect them in their burrows. Insects will live for days at the mouth of the den, unable to escape, unable to run, unable to die either, just waiting until the nesting pair deigns to eat.
9. The Strix varia has claws. Talons: rugged and all-purpose. They are literal killing tools. They are driving their cousins, the Northern Spotted Owl, to extinction.
11. Eyes.
Eyeballs. Spheres.
When people think of eyes, no matter imagine, they think of spheres with irises and pupils and blood vessels. These raptors have conical eyes that their sockets, because they are so large. Proportionally, people would have cylindrical grapefruits if we had the same eye-to-face ratio.
pair matter the species they that can’t move in large.
cylindrical eyes the size of
12. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, but what if there is something else behind those eyes? If you look into the ear of an owl, you can see the back of their conical eyes bulging beneath thin skin and veiled behind soft feathers.
Those eyes that seem to look into a person’s very soul, seem to catch a glimpse of their entire being, seem to know the world’s deepest secrets.
Sometimes those eyes are thought to hold all the knowledge in the universe, other times, those eyes are thought to bring death to whomever they lay upon. Owls are known for their eyes.
Q. Magenta 2024, Acrylic Paint
Our Bathroom 2024, Acrylic Paint Beetle Lyda
Soap Suds
2024, Acrylic Paint and Polymer Clay
Black Velvet Cake
Isabella Dominguez
I knew that I’d settled for a boring existence after my third shift under the Hatman. Now I know that sounds pretty blasphemous, even for a demon. Believe me, I’ve had people come up to me and still ask why a demon like me ain’t hanging over someone’s face as they sleep. Trust me, the act gets old quick. Honestly, I kinda wish I coulda figured that out sooner. My whole life up to this point was just doin’ that same old shtick over and over again. I sneak into a human’s room. I get into position (my old favorite used to be lying right on top of the bed). I poke around a little in their subconscious to prime them. Y’know, making sure they’re really deep in dreamland. Sometimes I would even pry their eyes open a little just to make absolutely sure their eyes were movin.’ Then once they’re ready, my body shifts to whatever their mind can conjure after I connect to them and I just sit there. Most of the job is just sitting there, actually. I perfected the silent vacant stare. It was practically my trademark in the business.
Every time I did that motionless dead-cold act, I swear, their eyes practically shot right outta their head! It was a riot! I even tried teachin’ a few of my coworkers how to do it. No one could
ever match me. I guess that was enough for word to get out about how good I was at this stuff. Of course, that’s when he came callin.’ I was just on a lunch break with a few of my coworkers. They were chill guys, y’know. We were swappin’ stories about our weirdest encounters when the room suddenly got a lot colder. Cold enough that the only heat was our soulfires. I could feel my fur stand on end as he approached me from behind. The others noticed before me and tried moving away while I was stuck in place. After a couple seconds, I finally looked over my shoulder to see him. He was just standin’ in the corner like he always does. He didn’t let me see his eyes that time, so he was only a completely pitch-black shadow loomin’ over me.
He doesn’t ever really talk, so I guess he decided to be straightforward. He handed me a note—it was an invite to join his exclusive cabal of sleep paralysis demons! He disappeared into the wall after that. Once the atmosphere finally got back to a comfortable scorch, we knew exactly what we had to do. We partied hard after that. At least the alcohol wore off before my first shift with him. He was great at first. Sure, shadow-traveling felt really weird, but I barely even noticed with how
giddy I was and how hot my soul burned. One thing you gotta know about Hatman: he’s more like a conductor than a boss. I still don’t really know how, but under him I just kinda knew what to do and when to do it. I was thrilled to have reached the top. But after that third shift when I finally came down from the high, I realized something. Being on top is really boring. I mean, what is there to even do now? The same thing I’ve been doing for years with the same skills I’ve practically honed to a tee? Was I really going to spend the rest of my immortal existence being the demonic equivalent of a human wage slave? I wasn’t going to stand for that.
Ain’t nothin’ worse than being a demon without pleasure. That’s when I went hobby hunting. I spent my free time out in the human world unembodied just to observe what they did in the day. It was jarring at first to see humans when they weren’t terrified out of their wits. It took a while for me to find something interesting enough to pay attention to. That was, until I found Mrs. Bell. She was a typical housewife who was baking a cake for her son. I don’t know what it was that made me stop and watch. The grace with which she gathered ingredients, the poise
in how she put them together, and the grand finale when the glorious cake came out of the oven, ready to be perfectly piped with homemade buttercream all captivated my senses. I think I learned what love felt like in that moment.
I scooted my tail down to the library and checked out every scroll on baking I could find. Sure, I was messy and disorganized. And everything I made appealed less to the human taste buds and more to the demonic taste buds, but who cares? I found passion again! Of course, I still do work for the Hatman. I ain’t lettin’ all this talent go to waste. But now when I come back down here, I can look forward to finding something new to make. Heck, I even signed up for some of Creme Brûtalée’s classes, so now I get to keep people awake with other methods. I have truly found my happiness. Just between us, I spotted a glimpse of a hat brim around the corner one day, and one of my black velvet cupcakes was missing. So I guess I already have fans of my cooking, even in high places.
Luz de la Virgen de Guadalupe
Emmanuel Jaimes Ramirez 2024, Acrylic Paint
De Castilla
Maria M. Mejia Rivas
2024, Acrylic Paint
Ode to San Antonio: The Season of Change
Josiah Granado
There’s only two seasons in San Antonio
That we’ve discovered so far.
There’s Summer
With an average temperature of one hundred fucking five degrees.
And there’s Cool Front
Where for one week in January it might even freeze!
I like Cool Front
It’s my favorite season
Cuz it’s the only time that I ever have a reason
To put a long sleeve on
Or eat pozole for lunch
(Nah I’m kidding I could do that any day of the year)
And you know what?
I think God likes Cool Front too
Why else you think he gave it all the holidays?
Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Spurs season
Maaannnn, I love me some
Cool Front season
But it ain’t always all jolly and jovial
What? You thought I was talking about the I mean…maybe?
To be honest I don’t really know how y’all
So I guess it don’t really matter then
Cuz even if you’re from out of town
You might still
Need this reminder
Of some of the potential mishaps that might
Puro pinche Cool Front season
Allow me to begin:
Chapped lips
Dry skin
Runny nose
Flu shot
Can’t fix my damn sleep schedule
I ain’t got no paid time off!?
It’s the season of change
Cuz Santa got my wallet empty…
Maaaann you better season that thang
Or else my stomach’s gon’ be empty!
the North side of San Antonio?
y’all get down
might happen during
Grandma’s house!
5 o’clock, don’t be late
I get there at 6:30 and the turkey still ain’t ready ‘till 8?
Plastic fork
Solo cup
Saying grace over Styrofoam plates
In Jesus name we pray, Ahh—
Mannn!? No one made mac and cheese!?
Wake up, wake up!
The fuck? It’s Christmas Eve already?
Damn, I didn’t even get my parents anything Well, I guess we just gotta go to…
South Park Mall!
Bath and Body Works
Two candles for my mom
JCPenney
Yeeeaaahhh we getting all the men socks…
Couple hours later
Ayy whose present is this?
Cuz it ain’t got no label
Don’t matter
Store-bought tamales
Rice and beans on the side
Ah hell nah, who made the menudo this year
Y'all didn’t do this shit right!
Chapped lips
Dry skin
Ma! The thermometer says 106
A ver, ahh just rub some ice on your head
Y ponte vicks!
Runny nose
Flu shot
Fuck a white Christmas
We just get a cool front…
Until that one week in January rolls around
You know, the one that I was talking about in the beginning Happens when the Cowboys ain’t playing during playoff season It might go something like this:
Aye bro, have you seen the news lately?
Nah man what they say?
KSAT said next week it’s supposed to be the “Arctic freeze”
Oh shoooot really
Yeah, and Ted Cruz is in Cancun so you know what that means…
Southside! Where we at We at H-E-B
Which one y'all go to
I’m at the one at Pleasanton and
Fifty rolls of toilet paper
Yeah, that’s me
Ten bundles of water
This not gon’ fit in the pantry…
Dozen eggs Hill Country Fare
I put ‘em on EBT
Then drive home puro style
No blinker, gas tank on E
Pull up to my crib…
Aye somebody come help me with all these
Ahí voy I’m coming, lemme just
Aye did you get sodas? The fuck!?
What the hell is this!?
Dr. B, Wild Red, Orange Burst, and
This that chafa shit man, you get
Aye bro chill they were buy three get one
Don’t act like you can even taste the difference…
Chapped lips
Dry Skin
Runny nose
Flu shot
Man, fuck Jerry Jones!
Why he give all that money to Dak Prescott…
Military
these groceries find my chanclas
fuck!? Hold up, Hold on! and Twist?
get this off WIC? one free difference… Prescott…
Ayy bro, you wanna go to a Spurs game next weekend, or what?
Nombre shut up
Have you seen the price of tickets man
Inflation sucks
$100 for nosebleeds, general admission?
Chale güey, fuck Ticketmaster
I hope they go out of business
But for now, I guess I’ll just watch ‘em on TV…
Ayy what’s the score!
97 to 60…
Daahm we’re winning!
Nah we’re the ones losing…
Chingao, fuckk man
Ayy Coach Pop!
Tell ‘em to pass it to Wembyyyy
Because there’s only two seasons in San Antonio That we’ve discovered so far…
There’s Summer
And there’s Cool Fro-o-o-uh
W-w-w-w-wait hold up, hold up, Actually there’s three
