Every cell in my body is absolutely perfect.

Perfect, in engineering, means fit for purpose rather than beautiful. A bearing is perfect if it turns.

By that measure there is a heart in your chest that has beaten somewhere near three billion times without a day off, a scheduled break or a word of thanks. It is not decorative. It has never needed to be admired in order to work. Most of you is like this — unadmired, unsupervised, doing the job it was built for while your attention is elsewhere entirely.