Why is it always our eyes that give us away?

Not that I’ve ever particularly cared whether I could be mistaken for an actual human, of course.  Why it should be the Emperor’s preference that we endeavor to do so is quite beyond me.  I am what I’m ordained to be, and what I am is brilliant and gorgeous and perfect; why expect me to make these ridiculous gestures in the direction of pretending to be lesser?  Absurd.  And yet I obey, for I’m the Emperor’s most faithful and most beloved servant.  Despite what you may have heard.

Anyways.  I’m supposed to be describing myself.

I am surpassingly beautiful, obviously.  All of my kind are, as is proper.  My form and visage are exquisite, slender and delicate, each of my features more charmingly radiant than the next.  My voice, crystalline; my smile a sunrise, my laugh a symphony.  I’ve striven to pay special attention to my hair in this guise I currently wear; the shade of silver blonde I’ve chosen is, I’m quite certain, the most fetching possible match for the pale softness of my skin.  But yet, if I were encouraged to choose just one facet of the flawless diamond of my beauty to represent me, it would be, as aforementioned, my eyes.  Is it cliché to speak of sapphires and seas and starlight, of sublime otherworldly intensity, of glances that pierce the soul like glass daggers?  Perhaps.  I care not, however.  I embodied physical perfection before mortals even had the words for it to stammer awestruck in my divine presence.  The stammering still never fails to amuse me, though.  Ask my sisters, they’ll tell you the same thing.  If you find them in a candid mood.

If I have miscalculated even the most trivial detail; it is in my stature, which it grieves me to acknowledge is unimpressive; I confide that I failed to anticipate how bizarrely tall these Westerners are.  Alas.  I shall simply choose to regard it as being adorably petite, and call it a lesson learned.  And although it pleases me while in the West to wear a Westerner’s face and answer to a Westerner's name, I do not choose to indulge in their fashion; it bores and vexes me.  Can you imagine, a creature of my obvious refinement and dignity trudging about in pantaloons like a farmer’s wife?  One shudders at the thought.  (See?  I even shudder charmingly.)  Silk and suede and silver and sapphire, kimono and cheongsam, I accouter myself only in these; and of course always in the hues which are mine: cerulean, cobalt, columbine, cornflower.  Azure.