If I were an artist, the idea of a creating a self portrait wouldn’t be so daunting. I’ve had a long love affair with my particular set of features. Vanity courses through my veins. But I’m not an artist. I’m a writer. A tangible portrayal would be simple. My hypothetically dextrous hand would be kinder while duplicating the peaks and valleys of my dearly self-obsessed image. This representation would be lovely due to the fact that it’s purely physical. It wouldn’t have any of the truth my inner monologue would whisper sheepishly from a written page.