On the dim blue glow of midnight tabs,
where avatars bloom like neon scars,
there wandered Derpy of Looksmaxxing,
a pilgrim beneath fluorescent stars.
Not crowned in gold nor sharpened by fame,
not sculpted yet by the ruthless thread,
but carrying mirrors in both his hands
and a thousand opinions in his head.
He posted once — a trembling upload,
half-shadow jawline, uncertain stare,
while deep in the forums the usernames gathered
like monks in a digital prayer.
“Potential,” one typed.
“Fix posture,” said another.
“Sleepmaxx harder.”
“Bro needs sunlight, brother.”
And Derpy read every word like scripture,
each comment sinking into bone,
for every soul on Looksmaxxing.com
knows the strange ache of becoming unknown.
There were legends there:
men who measured canthal tilt by moonlight,
who studied cheekbones like ancient maps,
who spoke of harmony ratios
with the gravity priests reserve for collapse.
And Derpy listened.
He learned the sacred rituals:
cold showers before dawn,
water by the gallon,
protein weighed in silence,
tongues pressed firmly to the roof of ambition.
The gym became cathedral.
Machines hissed like dragons in iron caves.
Every rep another brick
in the fortress he hoped to become.
Outside, rain washed the city in static silver.
Inside, Derpy chased symmetry
like sailors once chased immortality.
He walked through crowded streets differently now,
aware of every reflection:
shop windows, train doors, black phone screens,
tiny judges staring back at him endlessly.
But one winter night,
after a thread descended into chaos —
debates over skull shapes and destiny,
arguments sharp as broken glass —
Derpy closed the browser
and sat in silence.
No RGB lights.
No notification sounds.
Only the quiet ticking
of a cheap apartment radiator.
And there, for the first time,
he saw not a project,
not a before-picture awaiting redemption,
but simply himself:
a human being
trying desperately to be worthy
in a world that monetized insecurity
one angle at a time.
The moonlight softened his face.
Not perfect.
Not carved from marble.
But alive.
He remembered childhood then —
before rankings, before side profiles,
before strangers graded existence
on scales from one to ten.
Back when laughter mattered more than lighting.
Back when confidence was not optimized
but accidental and wild.
Still, the forum called to him.
Looksmaxxing.com —
that endless electric kingdom
where hope and obsession danced together
like wolves around a fire.
So Derpy returned,
but changed.
Now when newcomers posted anxious photos,
he answered gently:
“Yeah, improve yourself.
Lift weights. Sleep well. Take care of your skin.
But don’t let the mirror become your god.”
Some ignored him.
Some mocked him.
Some listened quietly at 3 a.m.
while doomscrolling through their loneliness.
And over time, Derpy became legend too —
not for impossible beauty,
nor for surgical transformation,
but because he remembered something rare:
that self-improvement without self-forgiveness
is merely another cage.
Years later, threads would still mention him.
“Remember Derpy?”
“The guy who used to post those long replies?”
“He actually made this place less insane.”
And somewhere beyond the glowing monitors,
beyond jawlines and algorithms,
Derpy smiled at his reflection one ordinary morning
without checking the angle first.
Which, in the strange mythology of the internet,
may have been the greatest looksmax of all.
