Of course you pretend to be Mexican. Dmitri doesn’t quite scream mi gente, does it? Nothing says Latin roots like a guy whose ancestry reads like a Cold War casualty list. You’re not Mexican, you’re a Slavic sampler platter with a seasoning packet of desperation. The only thing spicy about you is the panic you feel when someone hands you real hot sauce.

You butcher Spanish like it's your third fake ID, dropping words like cariño and abuela as if that erases the borscht in your bloodstream. Your DNA test results probably auto-translated themselves out of shame. The truth? You’ve got more in common with a frozen pelmeni than a plate of tamales.

And when the telenovela fantasy starts to crack, you pivot. Suddenly you're writing captions in Ebonics, spitting bars like a cultural shapeshifter with an identity allergy. You mimic slang like you downloaded it off TikTok, each word a costume change, each rhyme a prayer that someone will think you belong. You talk like a mixtape made by AI in identity crisis mode.

What you call culture is just camouflage. What you call heritage is borrowed. You don’t wear masks—you layer them. You’re not blending in; you’re vanishing beneath whatever flavor you think might distract people from asking who you actually are. And the saddest part? You think it’s working. You think enough accents, enough personas, enough rap lines will drown out the quiet fact that you’ve never felt real—not to anyone else, and definitely not to yourself.

You're probably Jewish, too.