Travel is not always what you expect. I did not expect to get drunk with my parents at a Red Lobster in Valencia, at any point in my life. But there I was, drinking a “lobsterita” and thinking about where I’d gotten all this caucasian from.

We returned to our shared hotel room. Two queen beds. No privacy. I shouldn’t complain. I’m only able to travel to my beautiful sister-in-law’s baby shower because they allowed me to hitch a ride with them, got a hotel room with enough space for me.

The joys of being a starving artist, apparently, include the sweet serenades of late middle-age sleep sounds. Here transposed:

THE SONG OF MY FOREBEARS

ssssssssssssssssssssHHWKsssssss

toooooot toot toot

haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah

hhwksssh hhwksssh

< sforzando di CPAP >

toottoot toooot too

hhwksssh hhwksssh

haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah

< crescendo di CPAP

coughcoughcough. coughcoughcough.

> decrescendo di CPAP

coughcoughcough. COUGH. coughcoughcough.

toooooot toot toot

haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah haaAAAaaah

hhwksssh hhwksssh

ssssssssssssssssssssHHWKsssssss

> decrescendo tutti al fin