I wish I could say 30chix had noble beginnings, but I cannot. In truth, it is the illegitimate child of jealousy and insecurity – conceived during the dark hours of night when the good and righteous people of the world are sleeping.
It was conceived while I stalked.
Yes, it’s true. My name is justachik1 and I’m a stalkohilic. My last view of her profile was twelve days ago.
There. I’ve said it. Aloud. I’ve admitted I have a problem. That’s the first step, right?
It started innocently enough. It was an occasional glance at her Facebook posts. Then a click through her photos. Then a search of her friends. I told myself I wasn’t stalking – I was just being curious. After all, she is the ex. There were things I needed to know. Hell, wasn’t it my right to know?
I don’t think I even realized it was a problem until I was completely submersed. The turning point was when I learned she had an Instagram account. It was a small nugget of information gleaned from a much longer, involved story – but before the speaker concluded, I had already created an account and was scouring her page. It was prolific. And fascinating. And addicting. I. Could. Not. Stop.
Soon, I had an account on every social media platform imaginable – solely to check up on her. I knew everything about her: what she was wearing, where she went, what she ate.
It was ridiculous really. Yet, I found myself checking several times a day. Sneaking a glance during meetings, in the bathroom, at lunch. It was the first thing I checked in the morning and the last thing I checked at night.
I had a problem.
Surprisingly, I was not ashamed. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I openly laughed about it and constantly shared my findings. My colleagues teased me, but they got as much joy as I did. They even got to the point where they’d ask about her before they asked about me or 1Rooster.
It was entertaining. And, in a weird sort of way, it was honest.
You see, I am the poster child for insecurity. It governs my life more than I’d like to admit. It always has. I know – really, truly know – I should not compare myself to others. I often recite to myself the following line from Max Ehrmann’s poem Desiderata.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter for always there will be greater or lesser persons than yourself.
It doesn’t help. I still do it. This insecurity is an irreparable character flaw.
Usually, however, I try to hide my insecurity and downplay the self-perceived shortcomings. I avert attention elsewhere. Use smoke and mirrors to force others to see only what I want them to see
But this, for some reason, was different. I wasn’t ashamed. I openly admitted what I was doing and how I rated – which more often than not, wasn’t in my favor. But rather than be embarrassed or apologetic about it, I learned to laugh. We all did. And it was contagious.
Slowly, our daily conversations morphed into a comparison of not just me to the perfect ex – but everyone. And, on a regular basis, our general conclusion was – Wow! We really suck.
And so the seed was planted.
One day, I casually mused – what if we started a blog about women who suck? Would any chix wanna write? Would anyone read it?
Chic5 was the first to sign on – quickly followed by chiknmiddle15 & ChickNorris29. It didn’t take long before I had two and a half dozen women who all wanted to write about how bad they suck.
And in a little over six months later? We’ve had 10,000 readers come to our page almost 110,000 times. So, yeah, people are reading.
And it feels good.
You see, it’s really not about sucking. It’s about honesty. It’s finding comfort in being able to say – I don’t always do this life gig right, but neither does anyone else and at least I’m strong enough to admit it.
And so are 29 other chix.
So while this blog may be the bastard child of two unworthy parents, it’s grown into something beautiful – something worthwhile.
I’m proud to be a chik.
And I’m proud to say I’m twelve days sober. I’m a long way from recovery, but it’s getting easier.
After all, now I have 29chix with lives far more interesting than the perfect ex.