Dear Extreme Makeover,

My name is Samantha and I am your biggest fan (pun intended, I’ll get to that in a second). I have been watching Extreme Makeover change faces, bodies, souls, hearts, minds, destinies and breasts since the first episode aired on Disney’s ABC a year ago last month.

I’m not going to beat around the bush. I want you to change my life. I don’t know if you can tell from my photo, but I am a seriously flawed human being. I’m sure you have specialists that can better assess me and my numerous, serious faults, but just in case, please allow me to go over a few.

First, my feet are canoes. My mother (a former Miss Nebraska runner-up) says I got my enormous feet from my father. I guess I'll just take her word for it. Anyway, my feet would be perfect if only they were size-fives. If you cannot shrink them a half-size, could you at least clean them up? I have been binding them since your first episode aired and now they are horribly disfigured.

I have the facial asymmetry of Lyle Lovett. My eyes are not aligned (the left eye is 0.000007 millimeters higher than the right), and although that may not seem like much to most people, I notice it, my mother notices it, and I’m positive that talent scouts will easily detect it. Also, I have brown eyes, and as your style experts can confirm, green is the new brown. I know I can get colored contact lenses, but I really hate the thought of poking those things into my eyes. I'd rather have new irises.

My forehead has three wrinkles in it; it obviously needs five. My right eyebrow has 16 more hairs in it than my left. And I’m in grave need of eyelash transplants.

I've heard that if breasts haven’t arrived by your sophomore year then they ain’t coming. Well I’m going to be a sophomore in the fall and I’ve only got small Cs, so bring on those tits! Seriously, though, I want my breasts to say "I'm classy," but don't be afraid to get a little wild. And of course, by “wild” I mean “huge”. I don’t want like, animal-shaped breasts or anything.

I don’t even want to talk about my nose; I assume the boys at school make fun of it the most. And the girls at school--don’t get me started. They ask me if I’m going to be a model. A model, they say, like they don’t even know the word supermodel exists. Fourteen-year-olds can be brutal.

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