Self portrait

I am a tall, lanky man with a long face that drops down in a straight line from a short and glabrous forehead, sporting no more hair than Julius Caesar did in his heyday, though the stubby brown tufts that do hang down over the aforementioned forehead seem somehow to confer an air of noble seriousness to an otherwise exaggerated countenance. My eyes, nose and mouth are large and uneven; the latter smiles awkwardly, usually refusing to bare its mostly straight and somewhat white teeth. I am almost handsome if you look at me straight on, though my nose and lips have long taken to the regrettable habit of protruding out into the empty space in front of them as i turn my head to one side or the other. I am wearing adidas hiking boots today, which have begun to become unglued at the toe, though their black and red laces yet manage to hold the brown leather into the semblance of two wholes. Rising up from the ground, the shoes turn into blue jeans that are too long for me, which in turn become a red sweater whose large black buttons climb upwards to protect my neck from the cold winter winds that do not blow in my little room. My hands are handsome because they somehow manage to look larger than they really are; and i wear only skin upon my bones, try as i might to reverse this inherited and fashionable fate.