I know a 5’2” balding Indian janitor with a head shape like an overripe potato, a receding hairline clinging to his scalp for dear life, and dandruff flakes snowing onto his grease-stained uniform. His midface is so underdeveloped that his entire face looks like it’s caving in, his jaw is narrow and weak, his overbite is so severe, and his skin? A disaster. Oily in some places, dry and flaky in others, red patches from eczema, random acne scars, and a permanent sheen of sweat that makes him look like he’s fresh out of a fever. He is walking around with undiagnosed cancer, chronic inflammation, and a digestive system that’s permanently malfunctioning.
And his voice? High-pitched, nasal, and monotone. He breathes through his mouth constantly, probably because his nasal passages are as collapsed as his social awareness. Every time he speaks, he sounds like he’s struggling against his own throat. His posture is terrible—shoulders slumped, head jutted forward, like a human question mark. His arms are skinny but puffy at the same time, like he skipped both the gym and proper circulation. His gut sticks out slightly, not from muscle, but from years of eating whatever gas station snacks he can find.
Coordination? Nonexistent. He walks like his joints are barely holding together, sometimes toe-walking, sometimes shuffling like his shoes are too heavy for his legs. He bumps into doorframes, fumbles with objects, and looks confused even when he’s doing basic tasks. His eye contact is either too intense or completely absent, his facial expressions don’t match the conversation, and his monotone speech makes him sound like he’s either a robot or a man who’s completely given up.
And yet, despite all of this—despite being a 5’2” balding, mouth-breathing, hunched-over, clumsy, monotone, high-pitched, greasy-skinned janitor—he is dating supermodels.
I already know what incels are going to say. “They’re in it for the money.” Except—plot twist—he’s a janitor. No millions. No secret inheritance. Just a guy pushing a mop, scrubbing toilets, and somehow pulling women who wouldn’t even glance at dudes who spend hours analyzing their own canthal tilt.
So what’s the secret? Maybe it’s confidence. Maybe it’s personality. Maybe women just aren’t out here calculating facial harmony ratios and instead go for guys who can actually hold a conversation.
Either way, the janitor stays winning.