What got u into looksmaxxing

[6’7whitechad]

I remember foids used to laugh at me when i walked by. Niggas make fun of my looks when i meet them and in school. I knew things had to change and they did

 

[6’7whitechad]

B

 

[CloudyCuck]

I used to think rejection was supposed to hurt for a day or two.

Then she laughed.

It was after school, near the lockers. I had spent weeks convincing myself that she liked me. We talked sometimes. She smiled at me in class. Once, she borrowed my pen and gave it back with a little note on it.

So I finally asked her out.

She looked at me for a second, then glanced at her friends.

“Honestly?” she said. “You’re a nice guy, but I’m just not attracted to you.”

Her friend snickered.

I tried to smile like it didn't matter.

“Oh. Yeah. No problem.”

I walked home staring at the pavement, replaying the sentence over and over.

I'm not attracted to you.

That night, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for the first time in a way that felt different. I noticed everything I'd spent years ignoring: my messy hair, the acne on my forehead, the way my clothes hung off me, my terrible posture.

I didn't hate myself.

But I realized I had been treating myself like someone I didn't care about.

So I decided to change.

I started with small things. I got a haircut that actually suited me. I learned how to take care of my skin. I replaced the oversized shirts I'd worn forever with clothes that fit. I started exercising regularly, not because I thought becoming muscular would magically make someone love me, but because I wanted to feel stronger.

I learned about sleep, nutrition, grooming, posture, and taking care of my appearance. Online, people called it “looksmaxxing.”

At first, I became obsessed with the idea that my face determined my entire life. That was the dangerous part. Every mirror became a scorecard. Every photograph became evidence. I compared myself to strangers and convinced myself that one more improvement would finally make me worthy.

Eventually, I realized I'd just traded one kind of insecurity for another.

So I kept the useful parts and abandoned the obsession.

I still work out. I still take care of my skin. I still dress better than I used to.

But now, when I look in the mirror, I'm not asking, Would she reject me?

I'm asking, Do I look like someone who takes care of himself?

And most days, the answer is yes.

The girl who rejected me never became my villain. She didn't owe me attraction, and she didn't destroy my life.

If anything, she accidentally forced me to notice that I had stopped investing in myself.

The brutal part wasn't hearing “no.”

It was realizing how badly I had needed someone else to say “yes” before I thought I was worth improving.

I never got the girl.

I got myself back instead. Looksmaxxing.

 

[6’7whitechad]

Your dad pussy