A passableport in any storm.

Because I’m a mook, I got my passport photo taken the other day. I’m not claiming that travel is dumb. Lordi knows I’m keen to travel a ton more now that I’m in the right hemisphere for it. Moreover, if having a Canadian passport means I don’t have to queue for an hour in the “visitors” line re-entering the country, then it’s anything but silly to grab it sooner rather than later. It’s $160 for a 10 year passport. Perhaps I should get a ton of them to decorate for a blacklight party, given how gorgeous they look with a “blinging” set up. I could get a car solely to cover the wheels with pages from Canadian passports, then line the hubs with black lights. Travelling in style. I could make a rave suit for maximum street cred and show Pitbull who the real Mr Worldwide is. Wait, scrap that. It’s a shitty nickname I want no part of. All I want is my Canadian passport so I can stop worrying about it for the next 10 years.

Oh. That’s right. Why am I a mook? Because I got my photos after sleeping for a mere 3 hours the night before. Bedraggled, unkempt, slovenly, ailing, infectious. Any of these should carry the right image. I wore a beanie to the store and it shows. Perfect hat hair. It looks like I’ve walked in fresh from putting a condom over my head. Cinched above the ears, my hair appears soft but messy. My fringe is clumped and the sides poof out over my ears. Descending down my face, you’d be forgiven for thinking I had pink eye. I’ve got the kind of red ocular halos usually reserved for junkies and the like. Because I’m exhausted, my left eye looks super lazy (more so than normal). Deep saggy bags weigh heavy underneath each eyeball, indicating the Eldritch horrors I must’ve faced prior to stumbling through the door. Deep grooves score my face, cheeks laden and heavy with fatigue. Thank fuck I at least took 2 minutes to shave my neckbeard, I’m doubtful I otherwise would’ve made it through the door of that fine convenience store. Not without being assaulted by a cattle prod anyway.

My girlfriend suggested it was probably the best kind of shot I could’ve gotten. In her mind, it’s an accurate representation of what I’ll look like to a customs officer when I’m asked once again to check into the visitors queue coming into Canada, despite the fact that I live, work and pay taxes here. She’s not wrong. For the next 10 years I’ll carry myself with true authenticity through the boarding gates.

Or I’ll just bring that passport rave suit and get them to stamp directly onto me. Mr Worldwide indeed.

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