I've been in Texas far too long

Last night I went out on my patio to smoke a cigarette (I'll talk more about this in the next few days). I got a beer out of the fridge, put it in a huggie and stepped through the sliding glass door. I sat down and opened the beer, lit my cigarette and did a quick survey of the situation. I was smoking a camel light, drinking a Shiner Bock from my "99.5 The Wolf - Texas Country" huggie that I got for free at Willie Nelson's 4th of July Picnic. I shook my head in abject shame. "I'm so Texas it hurts," I thought to myself. Somehow, I never thought this would happen. I thought I could stave off the inundation of this Texican culture longer than this. It's a slippery slope from the innocent dabbling I've been doing to speaking unintelligibly and screaming out, "REMEMBER THE ALAMO!" at every opportunity, whether appropriate or not. I need some magnolias, too many mesquite trees around here. I need a November Saturday in the Grove drinking bourbon like they quit making it and yelling obscenities at coonasses. I need some Mississippi. And so, I'm a Texassippian. A Mississippi ex-pat in a land of barbarians, and, God help me, I'm starting to speak the language.