I'm Going to Do Something Crazy

I’m 5'6", 155, built like a compact side quest with main character energy. I’m smooth in conversation, lethal in grapples, and allergic to small talk. Deadlines? I treat them like henchmen—quick, clean, and slightly behind schedule.

Backstory

I wasn’t always like this. Confidence? It used to be a stranger. I grew up with self-doubt in my lungs and self-worth scraping the floor. But I refused to stay there. No roadmap, no mentor—just raw will and a Wi-Fi connection. While others had guidance, I had Google. I learned, I failed, I rebuilt. The world didn’t hand me a path, so I carved one. The internet wasn’t just my tool—it was my lifeline.

Looksmaxxing

I’d be lying if I said looksmaxxing wasn’t a big part of my story.

I grew up feeling invisible—ugly, even. Not in some dramatic, tragic way. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to notice every mirror, every laugh that lingered a second too long.

But deep down, I knew. There was something under the surface. A blueprint waiting to be built.

The ugly duckling? Cliché. But it was real. And I wasn’t waiting for nature to do its thing—I was going to force the evolution.

Bit by bit, I rewired myself. Skin. Style. Voice. Presence. I studied people like an anthropologist with a Wi-Fi addiction.

I wasn't just chasing looks—I was rebuilding the blueprint: socially, financially, spiritually, and yeah, aesthetically.

This isn’t a story about vanity. It’s about control.

When the world won’t hand you power, you build your own reflection until it stares back with respect.

Being Cyborg

I turned myself into a natural-born cyborg. Not with wires or implants—yet—but with obsession, discipline, and fire.

I refused to let circumstance define me. I wasn’t built for average. I wanted more—first naturally, then completely.

So, I learned the rules. The game. The angles.

I wasn’t chasing attention. I was hunting excellence. I wanted to be world-class.

Nights bled into mornings on forums, subreddits, dead threads where the desperate and the dangerous dropped their notes.

I studied attraction like science. I broke down beauty like an engineer.

Wealth? That was a separate war. Climbing class was never just about money—it was about leverage. Power. Breathing room.

I tested everything. Pickups. Cold approaches. Grooming hacks. Sleep cycles. Skincare. Side hustles.

I failed. A lot. Rejection became my gym. Pain, my coach.

But I got smarter. Sharper. Meaner, if I had to be.

And before I ever touched a scalpel or considered a single modification, I made a vow:

Become elite first.

Then upgrade the hardware.

Deadline

I used to think rejection would make me stronger. That each “no,” each awkward silence, each ghosted message was sharpening me. And yeah—maybe it did. For a while.

But eventually, it started to rot from the inside.

I wasn’t learning anymore—I was looping. Replaying every failure like a broken reel. Every flaw became a headline in my brain. I built an entire personality around self-critique. Productive at first… until it became paralysis dressed up as discipline.

That’s how time slips. Quietly.

One skipped goal. One excuse.

Then you blink, and you’re 36.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not the same kid who started this journey. I’ve built myself into something better. Sharper. Cleaner. Closer to who I was supposed to be.

Style? Locked in.

Money? On track.

Social skills? Miles ahead of where I began.

But that voice never shut up. Not completely.

And there’s one thing it always circles back to.

Height.

I’ve hated even admitting it. Too vain. Too insecure. Too taboo. Whatever.

But if I’m being real? It’s been the thorn.

The one variable that’s always sat in the back of my head whispering, “You’re good… but not enough.”

When I was 14, I searched “how to grow taller naturally.”

When I was 16, I found out about limb lengthening surgery.

I read the studies. I joined the forums. I watched the surgeries. I knew the risks. The screws. The recovery. The looks. The judgment.

And still—I wanted it.

But I waited.

Because deep down, I knew if I didn’t max out my current potential, I’d always wonder.

Always feel like I skipped a step.

Tried to cheat the game without learning how to play it.

So here’s where I’m at.

I’m giving myself six months.

Six months to become elite—as I am.

To strengthen every piece I can.

Social mastery. Deep connection. Romantic confidence. All of it.

At my current height.

After that?

I book the flight.

Vietnam or India.

The first procedure.

The first break.

And yeah—it’ll hurt. It’ll take time. But I’ll rise.

Not just taller.

Transformed.

Bookmark this blog if you want to see it happen in real time.

Subscribe to the channel if you want the unfiltered version.

But I’m not doing this for views. Or validation.

I’m doing it for the kid who stayed up Googling how to escape his own skin.

And for the man who’s finally ready to step into a body that fits the vision.

No more delay.

This is the deadline.