You possess a face that only a mother might love--and even then only due to the heavy soul-crushing guilt she felt at having spawned such a hideously malformed thing. Your nose, or rather your snout, erupts imperiously from your face like Krakatoa, whose cataclysmic explosion was heard 'round the world. Your hair, seemingly applied by Jackson Pollock, is sadly too short to cover the shame that is your bulbous forehead, which appears to be in the third trimester of pregnancy. It is a face of futility, a mauled mug, a cruel countenance, a vile visage. When seeking the aid of medical professionals, you are often directed to the burn ward before you have opened your stupefying maw to ask assistance in whatever matter carried your hulking frame there. Once you succeed in speaking to someone, the flapping of your lugubrious lips is too distracting for the recipient of your words to comprehend them, let alone respond to them or act upon them. This affect is hastened by your pulpy blemished skin and the stubs of flesh you call ears, which must have been gnawed upon by angry dogs when you were younger. Your scabby eyebrows are, needless to say, unpleasant to look upon. I advise you to invest in a high quality veil, mask, or other implement to obfuscate your appearance.

Lovingly Yours,

Dr. Mollygrubs

P.S.
Bosses Day is June 16th