Picture 
this: 
a 
lazy 
Monday 

afternoon. I’m sitting on my couch in 
the 100 degree weather of Mumbai, 
India, scrolling through Twitter. Now, 
every few days, I’ll see the occasional 
insightful Tweet, but none stuck with 
me quite like this one:

“Gen Z will drink one medium 

caramel latte, not eat a single thing till 
4 p.m., verbally abuse a racist, crack 
a joke about their mental health and 
pick up a tear gas canister with their 
bare hands, but get nervous when 
they have to call to make a doctor’s 
appointment.”

As blunt as it is, the tweet’s author 

makes a valid point here: Gen Z 
is brave and unapologetic. Gen Z 
doesn’t take ifs, buts or maybes when 
it comes to something we believe in. 
Be it the Harry Potter community’s 
swift cancellation of its formerly-
beloved writer, or the collective anti-
European Super League outrage of 
soccer fans across the globe that had 
the highest-ranking officials in the 
sport quaking in their boots or the 
countless social media pages that 
try to amplify voices that need to be 
heard, Gen Z will stubbornly fight for 

what is right, even if it means turning 
against the things and people we love. 

And it’s not just about what is right 

for society, Gen Z-ers know what is 
right for us. Is it selfish to put your 
needs first sometimes? Absolutely 
not. It’s 2021 and mental health is at 
the forefront of our conversations — in 
large part due to Gen Z’s willingness 
to reject doing things that do not bring 
us happiness. That is what makes Gen 
Z such a force.

That being said, there are some 

things we just will not do and it is 
hilarious. So, inspired by my mystery 
twitter hero, here is The Michigan 
Daily’s Bucket List for Gen Z: a non-
exhaustive list of all the things Gen 
Z should be able to do, but simply 
cannot.

- Make a doctor’s appointment
- Send food back at a restaurant
- Use either Insta stories or Snap 

stories, but not both

- Drink water (Just five glasses a 

day, it’s not that difficult)

- Be into comic books and anime 

(It’s always one or the other, never 
both)

- Order black coffee
- Cope in ways other than comedy
- Delete TikTok for more than a 

week

- Wear a color other than black, 

white and grey (and the occasional 
navy blue)

- Not form an entire opinion around 

a topic upon learning the slightest 
thing about it

- Not make fun of Millennials
- Write a bad Yelp review
- Leave a below-20% tip
- Abstain from thrifting right after 

donating clothes

- Make a Spotify playlist without 

that one song (Yes I get it, Taylor 
Swift is amazing, but you can’t put 
“You Belong With Me” on a workout 
playlist)

- Have more than one go-to fast 

food chain

Now, 
these 
things 
seem 

straightforward — some of them 
are as mundane as tasks get. So, 
why can’t Gen Z do it? As a member 
of this fascinating generation, I’d 
probably lean towards the “we care 
too much about the sentiments of 
others” argument, but that answer 
seems way too simple. Members of 
older generations might resort to one 
of their many regular, anti-Gen Z 
complaints, including but not limited 
to: “They can’t take responsibility,” 
“They’ve had it too easy, they don’t 
want to get out of their comfort zone” 

or my personal favorite “Pfft, kids 
nowadays *cracks knuckles* they’ve 
gone soft.”

So, I don’t know. I don’t know why 

Gen Z hesitates from doing things well 
below their pay grade and seemingly 
included in a sane person’s comfort 
zone. It is intriguing and amusing, but 
I guess that could be said about a lot of 
things this generation does. 

What cannot be argued is that we 

keep you on your toes. With Gen Z, you 
never know what’s coming next. Gen 
Z will carry society into the future 
and I have no doubt that we will do a 
spectacular job. But I’d sleep a little 
easier knowing that our water intake 
is a bit more regular, “Sweet Caroline” 
doesn’t make it onto our “study music 
to focus” playlist and we can actually 
call the doctor when our friend’s knee 
pops out.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, September 29, 2021 — 5

“Latte foam art. Tiny pumpkins. 

Fuzzy, comfy socks …”

Four 
months 
ago, 
comedian, 

musician, writer, actor and filmmaker 
Bo 
Burnham 
(“Promising 
Young 

Woman”) released “Inside.” Today, the 
internet is still grappling with how to 
feel about it. 

Unlike Burnham’s previous specials, 

“Inside” is more of a political art piece 
than a comedy. Subtle wit is done 
away with altogether, and in its place 
Burnham has created something that 
feels as crude and hopeless as being in 
quarantine during a global pandemic. 
And for the most part, his artistic 
transition from standup to existential 
fantasia has been met with applause.

However, there’s plenty of warranted 

criticism to be made about the tone 
Burnham employs while satirizing the 
hypocrisy of the digital age. Mainly, he 
can be guilty of the same performative 
activism 
that 
he 
condemns. 

Accordingly, it’s perfectly reasonable 
to find his patronizing attitude off-
putting. In fact, that’s exactly how I 
felt the first time I watched “White 
Woman’s 
Instagram”— 
a 
satirical 

music video from “Inside.”

The song pokes fun at shallow 

social media posts, commonly found 
on young, white women’s Instagram 
pages. At first, I wasn’t sure if the joke 
was funny enough to warrant what 
appeared, at the time, to be notes of 
misogyny. 

Yet, Gen Z seemed to embrace the 

song. I found it all over my TikTok feed 
the day after Burnham’s special was 
released, with many users joining in 
on the joke. It stuck with pop culture, 
and surprisingly, it stuck with me. 
Not because of its arrogant dismissal 
of white women, but because of the 
opposite:

Bo Burnham cares about why we, as 

a generation, can’t overcome our need 
to post content.

There’s a Bo Burnham interview 

that I always think about. In it, he 
talks about how young people right 
now are perceived as a “me, me, me” 
generation, when the truth is that 
it’s far sadder than that. For the first 
time in history, celebrities are no 
longer these massive icons on Mount 
Olympus. Thanks to social media, 
everyone is on a spectrum of celebrity, 
and by the time you reach middle 
school, you probably already know 
where you rank. 

Hence, every time a so-called “Gen 

Zer” feels the need to post about 
how much fun they’re having or who 
they’re hanging out with, they’re 
not screaming for attention. They’re 
begging for acceptance. 

“White 
Woman’s 
Instagram” 
is 

simply a caricature of this devastating, 
generational 
phenomenon 
put 
to 

music. This need for approval does 
not only impact women, of course, 
but throughout American history and 
beyond, it’s no secret that women 
have been forced to be aware of 
themselves in ways that men have 
not. Social media apps like Instagram 
and Tiktok are specifically designed 
to reward attractiveness — measured 
by standards that aren’t even human. 
As a result, the entire self-worth of 
teenagers right now is dependent on 
their ability to achieve likes in this 
twisted, virtual world. 

The 
insecurities 
of 
awkward 

13-year-olds are being tapped into 
in ways that previous generations 
couldn’t have imagined. Burnham later 
touches on this in his wonderfully-
sarcastic monologue:

“Maybe 
allowing 
giant, 
digital 

media corporations to exploit the 
neurochemical drama of our children 
for profit, you know, maybe that was 
a bad call by us. Maybe the flattening 
of 
the 
entire, 
subjective 
human 

experience into a lifeless exchange 

of value that benefits nobody except 
for, you know, a handful of bug-eyed 
salamanders in Silicon Valley … maybe 
that as a way of life, forever … maybe 
that’s not good.”

In “White Women’s Instagram” 

and several other “Inside” tracks, the 
world is a late-stage capitalist dystopia 
nearing its apocalypse. 

This is evident in Burnham’s song 

“That Funny Feeling,” where he lists 
off the strange contradictions of 
modern America — “Deadpool’s self-
awareness,” “Bugles’ take on race,” 
“stunning 8k resolution meditation 
app.” 
In 
our 
pursuit 
of 
human 

evolution, we can’t even tell the 
branded, virtual world from the real 
one. 

Understanding this context casts 

“White Women’s Instagram” in a 
whole different light. It’s not about the 
ridiculousness of white girls. It’s about 
the commodification of human life. 

“A novel,” “a couple holding hands,” 

“fresh fallen snow on the ground.” 
These are real, meaningful joys that 
life has to offer. Yet, instead of getting 
to experience them, the existence of 
social media has changed them into 
something else: a potential Instagram 
post. A chance to earn status. A piece 
of social currency. 

I cannot imagine something crueler 

to take from our generation than the 
simple beauties of the world. 

That’s not to say that in “White 

Women’s 
Instagram” 
and 
other 

tracks like it Burnham is being 
fully sympathetic to our generation. 
After all, he technically rests in the 
Millennial age range, and as a result, 
much of his criticism is directed 
toward individual shallowness and the 
loss of challenging art due to social 
media “aesthetics.” 

However, 
like 
all 
great 
satire, 

Burnham has a level of empathy here 
that makes the song so much heavier 
in significance than it seems on the 
surface. 

For 
instance: 
Throughout 
the 

majority 
of 
“White 
Woman’s 

Instagram,” black bars appear on 
either side to keep the images in a 
neat, square dimension, mimicking 
Instagram’s 
popularized 
format. 

About three quarters into the video, 
Burnham assumes a character who 
has lost her mother. As she speaks 
earnestly about her grief, the bars 
descend to the sides, depicting a shift 
away from the digital world and into 
a more honest, human one. Before 

she can get too sincere though, the 
bars come back, reconstructing the 
Instagram framing just in time for “a 
goat cheese salad!”

In this scene, Burnham challenges 

us to consider how social media 
compels us to prove our happiness to 
others. Rather than being able to face 
grief in a natural, healthy way, emotion 
is numbed through the forces of 
constant entertainment and artificial 
self-branding.

If it wasn’t clear already, I love the 

people of my generation. Growing up 
on the internet has made way for some 

of the most hilarious, well-informed, 
open-minded people in history. Yet 
my heart breaks for how anxious, 
insecure and straight-up depressed 
we have become due to our hunger 
for genuine human experience. 

I hope, perhaps with naivety, that 

these are just symptoms of being the 
first generation raised on iPhones. 
Maybe 
when 
Gen 
Zers 
become 

parents, our understanding of the 
internet’s true dangers will inform 
our kids in ways that our parents 

just 
didn’t 
have 
the 
experience 

to. However, American life under 
capitalism means that things will 
always keep going. Our children will 
likely grow up in new, virtual worlds 
that we aren’t able to comprehend — 
potentially ones even more dangerous 
than ours. 

I know that’s a pretty depressing 

note to end on, but keeping with 
the spirit of “Inside,” sometimes 
confronting the truth is a terrifying 
thing to do. If we want real change, 
we can’t keep chugging ahead. We 
need to slow down.

In the middle of a blue LED-

lit dorm room housing a gaggle of 
first-year girls, a phone blares the 
elementary ABCs. “Stand up if you’ve 
been with a J,” a girl yells when the 
letter passes over the phone’s screen. 
Every girl shoots up and poses for 
the video, collectively groaning about 
their romantic experiences with the 
stereotypical, thoughtless “J-named 
boy.”

TikTok 
trends 
like 
the 
“ABC 

hookup list” embody how Gen-Z 
girls are reclaiming their sexual and 
romantic lives. Similarly, Gen-Z girls 
post humiliating dating, flirting and 
hookup stories set to Seal’s “Crazy” 
and “Are they hot or are they just 
(insert adjective here)” videos — in 
which they illustrate the niche traits 
they find attractive in a love interest. 
By being honest on social media, 
recongizing both the triumphs and 
pitfalls of hook-ups and love, we erase 
the shame baked into the female 
experience. Thanks to TikTok, these 
conversations are broadcasted globally 
for girls to empathize with.

Older generations tell us what is “too 

mature” for our age and the media tells 
us what is “too prudish.” We are taught 
to laugh when Sandy wears both a 
long-sleeved cheer costume and a tight 
leather set in “Grease” and to sneer 
when Taylor Swift meets “yet another 
boyfriend.” Boys high-five their guy 
friends and stare at their girl friends 
when rumors about sexual encounters 
spread in the halls.

When society shames young women 

for their sexual or romantic histories, 
we internalize our struggles, desires 
and experiences as wrong or abnormal. 
If 
society 
were 
to 
destigmatize 

and recongize female sexual and 
romantic histories, we would be more 
equipped to accept and embrace our 
sexuality and ourselves. Until then, 
we are stuck in a vicious cycle, held to 
unattainable standards wherein sex 
and abstinence, being noncommittal 
and being romantic and fooling around 
and monogamy are all “wrong.” As we 
internalize these norms, nothing really 
feels “right.”

Teenage girls deserve an outlet to 

discuss their personal experiences 
with hookup culture. We find that 
outlet on Tiktok, where there is little 
shame in telling our story.

In dorms across the country, teen 

girls have been commiserating in each 
other’s romantic woes for decades. 
Digitization makes these conversations 
(set to music ranging from City Girls’ 
“Twerkulator” to the ABCs) more 

casual, open and funny — within the 
dorms and also on a global level. 

In TikTok trends like the “ABC 

hookup list,” girls blush as they stand 
for 26 letters or zero letters of the 
alphabet because others tell them it’s 

“too many” or “too few.” But within 
these small circles of laughing girls, 
removed from the pressures and 
expectations of what is “normal” for 
a teenage girl, there is no judgement. 
With secrets out in the open and set 
to a soundtrack of bouncy music, girls 
can have real, honest conversations. 
We can find solace in the fact that 
others go through the same things we 
do. We learn that sex and romance are 
personal, and we are all simply doing 
what is “right” for us. 

As my roommate stood for “M,” 

she told me about a high school crush 
who was far more than a crush. As 
I stood for “A,” I told her about my h 
sumiliating first kiss. We told each 
other we would look out for one another 
as we navigate college love with rose-
colored 
glasses. 
These 
lovestruck 

conversations are just as important as 
the basic roommate inquiries: “When 
do you go to bed?” and “What’s your 
favorite movie?” Tiktok started these 
conversations.

When 
Gen-Z 
looks 
back 
with 

horror at our old TikToks, I hope we 
can be proud that we worked toward 
destigmatizing love, sex and adolescent 
absurdity via a 30-second clip set to 
the ABCs.

The dystopian reality of ‘White Women’s Instagram’

Kissing and Tiktoking: Gen Z girls reclaim the hookup story

Gen Z’s bucket list

Design by Maggie Wiebe

Design by Mellisa Lee

BEN SERVETAH

Daily Arts Writer

KAYA GINSKY

Daily Arts Contributor

RUSHABH SHAH
Daily Arts Contributor

Design by Mellisa Lee