Once a night I bathe myself and evaluate my looks carefully.
My thick back hair has surpassed the acceptable limit. It is probably against the law the amount of hair per square inch my back beards have. Possible against God's law. My masseuse uses roughly 2 liters of oil in order to fully lubricate me as she rubs.
When I'm at 7 Peaks Waterpark and Elderly Man Drinking Fountain, people stop and point and discuss the things that are caught in my back hair. Airborne trash like napkins and cup lids have been known to become ensnared. My front hair is a wilderness that has taken over my shoulders and arms. If I spill a piece of peanut butter cookie onto my chin, I can find it later beneath my belly button.
My fingers and toes appear elongated. They are delicate. People ask me of I can heal them like E.T. and I angrily poke them in the eye from across the room. In high school I was voted Least Likely to Own Well-Fitted Gloves.
My arms are exactly 2 inches longer than any XL men's button down can accommodate.
If my teeth were removed and replaced with kernels of corn while I was sleeping, I wouldn't notice for 3 weeks at least. They would probably get away with it, but where's the profit in that crime?
My shoulder skin is bespeckled and mottled like a potato. My entire torso is potato-like, in fact. A potato skin filled with meat. I've come to terms with the potato meat torso. My nipples are weird, long sons of bitches, but the areolas are satisfyingly small. Someday. I hope to make my belly less prominent.
My head is slightly more than double the size that it should be. It is similar to the yet unmade bobble-headed version of me, but with more neck meat. I used to be self-conscious about it as I walked down the junior high halls. Now I'm cool with it.
The key was understanding that some people are way too short, or have no head at all. People compliment me on my eyelashes and hair retention, so I remember those good things and feel nice.