Most women are dating 5’2” balding Indian janitors with massive, pulsating tumors—grotesque, bulging masses of infected flesh that dangle like half-melted watermelons. These tumors drip thick, viscous ooze, leaving sticky trails as he walks, and the wet squelch of his steps is enough to make your stomach churn, but women can't look away. They’re drawn to the grotesque, alien lifeforms on his body, fascinated by the rotten smell and almost fetishizing the tumors, rubbing the pus-filled lumps as they dream of being close to the disgusting, quivering appendages. The tumors pulse with unnatural rhythms, their veins thick like vines, and the skin around them stretches thin. Forget beauty standards—now, beauty lies in the raw, sickening authenticity of the janitor’s tumor-covered magnificence, and men are desperately trying to replicate his repulsive magnetism.
