Monday, November 21, 2011

That second post.

Apparently, I look like my father. I suppose we share a similar facial structure and whatnot, but he has the ability to grow extremely decent facial hair.
I am not complaining that I don't. In fact, I'm very grateful I don't.
My eyes are large for my face. It might be a strange thing and I'm probably reading too much into it, but I think it's a Chilean-Australian thing, the shape of my eyes. Chris's are similar to mine, and another girl I know has it going on as well. Biggish eyes, strangely shaped.
My skin is a weird colour. It's like it wants to be olive, but it's just too lazy to actually get there. Unless I lie in the sun (skin cancer ahoy) for hours on end, my skin insists on staying yellow. In winter, I look like I have jaundice.
I am short. You've probably gathered that by now.
Out of my entire family, I was the only one to be given straight hair. Everyone has a bit of a wave or some epic curls on both sides. Me? I'm the one who brushes her hair, and it looks like you've run a straightener through it. At the moment it's a reddish colour.
My nose is the bane of my existence, not because I dislike its shape (I'm indifferent to that side of it) but because of its innards. When my body was cheerfully forming, the cells decided to give me a deviated septum with polyps to boot. Essentially, I can't breathe through my nose. I now have to get the nose operated on. Curse those celebrities who use deviated septum as an excuse for their nose jobs, because:

  1. It makes it so much harder to get people to believe you, and
  2. It struck fear into my heart that I'd walk in with my nose and walk out with Michael Jackson's nose.
My teeth also decided to be a bit off. An allergic reaction to something my mother received - for me - while I was still assuming the foetal position led to the majority of my teeth having little or no enamel. In three weeks, as a matter of fact, I am getting veneers put on my teeth again. The front ones have decided to fail me miserably, thanks to the hippie dentist my mother insisted on taking us to in Brunswick Heads.
(I don't trust someone in the medical profession who wears thongs when in a 'surgical' environment.)

Aaaaaand once again, time to flee. Work beckons.

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