iblameautistickids
I identify as a Chad
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2025
- Posts
- 1,102
- Reputation
- 1,096
It all started in a thread titled “How bad is my canthal tilt really?”—a typical Wednesday night on Looksmax.org.
@iblameautistickids had just uploaded another set of unflattering downlighting pics, hoping for a crumb of validation or at least a new routine to obsess over. The comments, as always, were brutal. “Midcel,” someone typed. “You look like you drink shampoo,” another chimed in. Classic forum.
But among the sea of emotionally stunted replies, one comment stood out.
That was new.
Intrigued and slightly alarmed, @iblameautistickids clicked on the profile. @randomized Shame’s post history was a mix of anatomical breakdowns, poetry about skull shapes, and a weirdly detailed theory about how hyperdivergent faces are just misunderstood. He was either deeply mentally ill or... strangely endearing.
A DM was sent.
Their chats were chaotic from the start: walls of text, GIGACHAD memes, discussions about gonial angles at 2 a.m., and trauma dumps hidden between sarcasm and shitposting.
They debated cephalometrics like philosophers debating fate.
Somehow, it worked. There was something comforting about being unhinged together in a space made for self-hate. They started calling. Then FaceTiming. And somewhere between sending each other bad side profiles and rating their past versions on a 1–10 trauma scale, something changed.
What started as a shared pathology became something deeper. @iblameautistickids confessed their fear of never being lovable without surgery. @Randomized Shame admitted he didn’t believe anyone would ever see him outside the lens of his chin pad and dead stare.
But in each other, they saw the version of themselves they never thought existed: wanted, worthy, seen.
Eventually, they met offline. In real life. In daylight.
They were both terrified.
And that was it.
They started dating. Not in the glamorous TikTok way. Not with cute matching gym selfies or couple glow-ups. No. They still posted on Looksmax sometimes, still rated random foreheads and still had BDD flare-ups. But now, when one spiraled, the other stayed.
Together, they were still insecure, still neurotic, still pathologizing each other’s zygos—but they were also healing.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the real maxxing all along.
@iblameautistickids had just uploaded another set of unflattering downlighting pics, hoping for a crumb of validation or at least a new routine to obsess over. The comments, as always, were brutal. “Midcel,” someone typed. “You look like you drink shampoo,” another chimed in. Classic forum.
But among the sea of emotionally stunted replies, one comment stood out.
That was new.
Intrigued and slightly alarmed, @iblameautistickids clicked on the profile. @randomized Shame’s post history was a mix of anatomical breakdowns, poetry about skull shapes, and a weirdly detailed theory about how hyperdivergent faces are just misunderstood. He was either deeply mentally ill or... strangely endearing.
A DM was sent.
Their chats were chaotic from the start: walls of text, GIGACHAD memes, discussions about gonial angles at 2 a.m., and trauma dumps hidden between sarcasm and shitposting.
They debated cephalometrics like philosophers debating fate.
Somehow, it worked. There was something comforting about being unhinged together in a space made for self-hate. They started calling. Then FaceTiming. And somewhere between sending each other bad side profiles and rating their past versions on a 1–10 trauma scale, something changed.
What started as a shared pathology became something deeper. @iblameautistickids confessed their fear of never being lovable without surgery. @Randomized Shame admitted he didn’t believe anyone would ever see him outside the lens of his chin pad and dead stare.
But in each other, they saw the version of themselves they never thought existed: wanted, worthy, seen.
Eventually, they met offline. In real life. In daylight.
They were both terrified.
And that was it.
They started dating. Not in the glamorous TikTok way. Not with cute matching gym selfies or couple glow-ups. No. They still posted on Looksmax sometimes, still rated random foreheads and still had BDD flare-ups. But now, when one spiraled, the other stayed.
Together, they were still insecure, still neurotic, still pathologizing each other’s zygos—but they were also healing.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the real maxxing all along.
