The hypochondriac

My nose is dry, my eyes are wet
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night

Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.

You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?