Imagine waking up one morning, rising along with the sun, feeling a warm breeze run along your face. You feel content, fulfilled, and even…happy? However, once you pick up your phone, you find yourself drowning in messages from friends, classmates, and even random strangers sliding into your DMs. Obviously you’re confused. Wondering: ‘What is happening?’ and ‘Why am I so popular all of a sudden?’ As you follow the messages to a link on Instagram, your heart drops to your stomach from the horror coursing through your body. You’re met with the sight of your incredible jawline cutting through the screen, so sharp, it might as well be glass.
The worst has happened. The most infamous Instagram account in Fairfield, Connecticut has posted you. Warde Mewing. Cue the dramatic music.
This story isn’t just another cautionary tale about the harmful effects of social media on Gen Z—we already know our brains are rotted.
This is, in fact, a very real story.
How do I know?
Because the story belongs to me. Cue the dramatic music.
It was on January 29th and it was the most dreadful day a young woman could ever experience. It was so dreadful that I’d argue it’s the worst thing to happen during January in the history of America.
It started when I was spending some time with my best friend, and someone around us was in a silly mood. I must’ve been in one of those moods too because when they beckoned us to mew, instead of rolling my eyes in distaste I decided to test the waters and try something new.
I mewed.
I can still hear the distant chuckling of my friend. Still remember the way my head snapped in their direction as I saw the phone they were holding, camera peering right into my soul.
I simply could not, would not, have any evidence of my mewing on any phone, even belonging to a trusted friend. So, like any normal person would, I ran at her, trying and failing to snatch her phone and erase any evidence of this occasion. Alas, she was far too strong. Before I knew it, she had the photo favorited and locked her phone. My stomach sank, and not knowing what to do, I sat in the corner of the fashion room, my head locked to the floor in despair.
When I walked out of that room, I felt nothing but utter violation and embarrassment. My mewing was not something to be laughed at, to be a joke at my own expense.
Flash forward to January 30th, the next oh so dreadful day, the day of the Instagram post. My hands shook as I saw the like count.
89.
89 individuals—all most likely from my school— had seen that defilement of an Instagram post. What happened to consent? I wondered what to do, who I should text, if I could even show my face at school the next day.
Since my cheekbones were so sharp my vision was blurred and I couldn’t see ahead of me. All I could do was look down in shame and pray for an amnesia outbreak (can that happen…?) throughout my friend group, classmates, and other peers.
It’s now April, and I still reel from the horror of that day. It’s unforgettable, and I’ll never forgive whoever takes pride in posting these photos. It’s like Gossip Girl, but less timeless and more cringe-worthy.