Look, there is just no way around this: there's a good chance your body may simply never grow the way you wanted it to. In this case, the only thing to do is own it completely and allow yourself to be dressed up in pastels and be led around by a ribbon. Yes, a ribbon. The bloodthirsty war god who presides over your fiery howling dreams will make sure you get a better slot in the gene lottery next time around.
Sometimes it's really just about the waiting, isn't it? Tell this guy his leash actually broke on the way to having a sit-down, and he'll just look at you like: So?
When you receive this expectant look upon your return from wherever it is you went, you had damn sure better have whatever they're hoping for hidden behind your back. If you don't, you should make like you forgot something at the store and just run back there. It's cool, they'll wait, but not for too long. Be quick.
Did somebody spray this secret agent out of a can onto a slice of pumpkin pie, and just miss?
I don't know about you, but I for one would appreciate it if the aliens infiltrating our planet's ecosphere from top to bottom were a little more fucking subtle about it.
Shh. Shut up. Why? Because we're passing right by Cardinal Sighs-a-Lot from Our Lady of Perpetual Dismay, and if he sees us looking at him, we're going to get another one of those god damn sermons.