My passport is two years expired, seven years old, and long ago became an inadequate representation of me.  I think my eyes may have somehow migrated closer to eachother over the past seven (or more as far as I know -- ancient picture) years.  

Today I neglected renewing my passport, despite its being my only chance to do so until May, in favor of doing my laundry, straight ironing my hair (before doing which, I'd been completely unaware of my ears; now, I fear for them every day -- burnage), and going into the city wielding in my hand a digital camera with depleted batteries and unfortunately out of money.  Well.  At least it was a nice day.

At the moment, I am spilling various substances (balsamic vinegar as I type) on and crumpling computer paper in preparation for scannage (that's the second improper addage of the -age suffix in this entry;  I fear that this foreshadows something far more sinister...) to turn them into brushes.  So tonight I explore my household for interesting textures to scan and photograph (and watch Paula Zahn shove romanticization down Christopher Reeve's immobile throat) because I'm bloated with caffeine and can't sleep.  

I've also begun the first real writing (that is, for example, writing that isn't simply a spontaneous, relatively uncontrived burst of existentialist angst in paragraph form) I've attempted in quite a while.  Hopefully that will be up by the end of next week -- a sticky, soft morsel of a piece that defenslessly awaits your criticism and derision.  

Also, it may interest you to know that my room is a mess.  And I must clean it now.