How can a mirror be broken while being fully intact?

This isn’t a philosophical, or even a rhetorical question as I truly believe all the mirrors in my apartment are somehow flawed in a way that I can’t understand. No, I’m not talking about looking in the mirror and feeling insecure because the lighting isn’t good or it’s angled to make me look like I weigh 10 pounds more than I do. And this isn’t one of those mirrors that I was enthralled with when I was a child. When my dad decided to notice me, his default method of bonding was taking me to Gus’s Diner just a couple blocks away from our less than modest home in Ohio. Near the claw machine that ate my measly allowance stood something I called the Wavy Mirror. Some days it gave me a head the size of a baseball, and other days it gave me long, skinny legs that any model would envy. My father would cluck at me, moving his arms as if he had chicken wings and say, “hey, Chicken Little!” Despite the mockery, I was grateful he at least noticed me for once.

But as I attempt every mirror in my apartment, I rule all these possibilies out. Because I don’t see my insecurities, the distortions of the Wavy Mirror, or even Chicken Little. The problem with the mirrors is that I can’t see my reflection at all.