Her chair being a far more comfortable one than his she still slept on inside his great-coat, looking warm as a new bun and boyish as a Ganymedes. Placing the garments by her and touching her on the shoulder he went downstairs, and washed himself by starlight in the yard.
-from Jude the Obscure, by Thomas Hardy
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Eight
She stands in clothes that refuse to fit her, without caring. She wobbles across the classroom, her red cheeks (she tans, we notice and frown) in stark contrast to the winterbleached visages of her classmates. She nods as if comprehending when the teacher interrupts her (or her boy(fellow presenter)friend). She (authoritative) looks at him and they chuckle nervously when no-one answers their discussion questions. She stands, fingertips splayed on the desk, with a commanding view of everything except herself.
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Nine
The lengthy tangle of purple-dyed steel that is his hair forms humorously vertical shapes when it’s buffeted by the wind. He compulsively combs it with his hands, as if to see if it still sits atop his head. Darkly peering through it, his eyes glisten.

Today I saw a girl with a button on her backpack which said “u know u want me.” Sorry, girlie, but not after you used a single letter to designate a second person nominative pronoun. I don’t have a long list of turnoffs, but...
* * * * *
“I probably won’t be seeing you much in the next few days, what with work and stuff.”
“Me too.”
“You won’t be seeing yourself? How do you plan to manage that?”
“I’ll be too busy to look into mirrors.”
“O, what a shame! I always keep a mirror at my desk so I can see myself.”
“That’s kinda pathetic.”
“Well, it keeps me from getting lonely.”
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Seven
His hands always twinkled with rubberbands and lighters and foliage and paper. It had gotten so he didn’t even notice when they plucked a leaf from a tree and rubbed it to pieces or dis- and re-assembled a pen into oblivion. They are (veiny, supple, spiderish) moving even when his mind is not.

Ick.
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Six
His glasses (which have the appearance of storm windows) glint occasionally with sunlight sifted through the metal blinds. The nose on which they lie protrudes over purplish lips which smack with rightful enjoyment if he asks a question. When chalking onto the board he establishes a bird’s nest of this line and that line and the other line (the students wait for him to read the notes aloud). He curves like a willow tree, bowed by decades of Dickens and Joyce. His fingers dance on the desk a patter of (impatience and) enthusiasm.

Longest one yet; it’s got some good and some bad parts. A bit rushed, again. Tomorrow, I’m going to try and spend some time on the entry.
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Five
Sarah Jacobson’s hair has the consistency of cornsilk. She doesn’t have the color (she reassures herself that only happens in fairytales and bottles). Her features are usually covered with windblown strands of dullish brown tipped in red (the remnants of a failed dying attempt when she was sixteen and unsatisfied with herself). Sarah’s eyes – grey – are usually angled up, which leads to near-comic mishaps when she angles them straight at the moment precisely before she steps before a car or into brambles.
Sarah likes listening to the sound her boots make when they drag on the sidewalk and the smell of fresh and worn and fallenapart books. Springtime, she plaits dandelions in her hair.

I don’t like the previous entry, and I like this one a lot less than I did when it was still in my head. Hmm.
* * * * *
Still Lives Part Four
The chair has worn its spot into the porch, the legs immovable, and his eyebrows are thunderclouds (his pupils flash dry lightning) regally presiding over a desiccated landscape riddled with faultlines. Wiry, his body is hunched tensely forward onto a thin rowan-carved cane, looking for all the world like a clock ready to strike an hour that will never come. At night, they say, his teeth sparkle diamondlike.

Still Lives Part Three
Between classes and work, she read on the ground. Outside her there are birds and leaves and air; inside she immerses herself in words and meanings and ideas, sitting upon the grass. Each page washes over her, a tide of escape a few hundred pages long. There, crosslegged, she drowns.

Still Lives Part Two
Jacob Macintyre is a short man, who always looks left and right when crossing oneway streets. He’s the kind of man who when he hears himself described as “quiet, but nice” is unsure whether to be insulted, but decides it most sensible to attempt to forget. Walking past Jacob (who has tried unsuccessfully to get people to call him “Jake”), you could be forgiven for mistaking him for a fire-hydrant or telephone booth.

Still Lives Part One
A quiet handjob in the back of his father’s Explorer, and she thinks: mother would approve and instruct, It’s the way to get a husband, dear.

Bad poetry, take one.

Breathing in Dusk
This is why I love night:

It throbs with darkness,
it skitters meaning.
It dances and glides.

The night
pulses.

As much of a chance as there is of seeing yourself in a sugarcoated manner, I think there's an equal chance of viewing yourself through a cracked mirror - of distorting good parts of yourself and developing a poor sense of self-worth due to flawed perception. Of course, it's more than likely that you can view your good parts more poorly than they deserve and your bad parts more kindly than they deserve. I think the key is to surround yourself with sincere people - friends who will tell you the truth about yourself, positive or negative - and be honestly unoffended by what they say. Others' perspectives, combined with the insights you yourself can offer, are the best way to completely know yourself.