In the spring of this year, my acquaintances started sharing bizarre affirmations like “I am ready for Baguette Lifestyle” and “My skin radi- ates a Youthful Glow” and “I have never been bored” on their Instagram stories. The state- ments, perched precariously between serious and sarcastic, started to show up everywhere. “Swollen lymphnode IS NOT CANCER” “I have not entered self-destruct mode” “My sneeze will NOT cause an earthquake” “I AM CRAZY BURGER” These visuals have a dizzying and distinct style: Written in a glowing font, affirmations are superimposed on nutty stock images of colorful earth scenes, Y2K era paparazzi shots, nostalgic cartoon characters and other bizarre photos. It’s like a polychromatic dreamscape, an aesthetic so bad it’s good, like comic sans and Crocs Jibbitz. The style seems to nod to memes from a decade ago (impact font, “deep-fried” filters), and there’s something about the unlikely pairings of images and phrases that make the posts feel like an alien’s recreation of internet culture. They don’t make any sense — and that’s the point. What is this trying to say? you might wonder while viewing glowing underwater fungi over- laid with “I will get over my ice cube addiction.” Is there a punchline, or a message, or anything to truly “get”? The affirmations fit into the category of absurdist “text memes” — a format described by the New York Times, characterized by, “confes- sional, overly personal messages paired with seemingly unrelated images allow for an extra layer of humor and irony.” And in 2021, internet users have an appetite for chaos. In the past 11 months, the @afffirmations account has exploded from zero to over 800,000 followers in 10 months. In the U.S., these memes exploded as governments relaxed COVID-19 regulations. As I re-entered society with stunted social skills, the images’ delusional tones and awk- ward wordings seemed to mirror the moment. Throughout our second pandemic year, and as we wrestle with continuing unknowns of a world ransacked by disease, affirmation accounts make statements from an aspirational perspective — an honest, impactful version of ourselves that is “anx- iety-free” and “ready to dive into a new week.” But we know we’re not always “ready to dive into a new week.” Beneath a veneer of crazed joy- fulness lies an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, the disillusionment that comes with spending your once wild and precious life working overtime so you can afford health insurance. The account references societal pressures of productivity, the futility of work and struggles to find pleasure in daily life. It acknowledges the feeling of mean- inglessness, but instead of falling into nihilism, it blasts viewers with somewhat genuine hope that everything is okay. Amid moments of self-doubt, proclamations like “I AM COASTAL DJ” make me feel, if only for a moment, like a coastal DJ. I’m fine! Everything is fine! At times, the ridiculous design softens the blow of hard-hitting truths. “Seeking help is really cool,” reads one post, which is paired with a psychedelic image of a bright pink limo. The posts dress up positive mental health messages into weird meme formats, making the messages lighthearted and palatable, not preachy or seri- ous. Without breaking character, the account may encourage appropriate care-seeking from people who have been hit by the psychological toll of the COVID-19 pandemic. I WILL spread positivity online The phenomena all started on the first day of 2021 when a Norwegian 20-year-old, Mats Anderson, started the Instagram account @ afffirmations. Formerly a black metal musician and university student studying Arabic, he’s an enigmatic figure, and online videos showing him emphatically reading the affirmations only add to his mystique. Over video chat, he explained his work, which he insists is not a joke. Anderson articulated that for a while, his posts were so deliriously happy that commenters sug- gested he was part of a PSYOP, a psychological operations from the U.S. government to make peo- ple happier. He chuckled when offering this infor- mation, adding, “I don’t know what that’s all about.” He spoke softly and with self-assuredness, like a tenured humanities professor or Bob Ross. As we talked, he walked through the streets of Oslo where he lives. “Many people consider Norway to be some sort of utopia, but that’s up for discussion,” Anderson said. He wore a tracksuit and his signature sunglass- es, and he came across as pleasant, scholarly and faintly aloof — just like he does online. Anderson’s handsome and well-dressed, and his good looks don’t go unnoticed: He told me that 70-80% of his followers are female and that women frequently ask to meet up with him. He’s not interested at all. “First of all, I’m married,” Anderson said, yet he prefers to keep details about his relationship pri- vate and doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Like I said, he’s a man of mystery. “I am a very simple guy. I do the same thing every day. I go to the same cafe and I sit there for a very long time and drink a double latte,” he said. Anderson brainstorms affirmations, plans the day’s post and then returns home to construct the images, which takes about two hours. “If someone were planning to kill me, it would be very easy for them because I am always either at home or at the cafe. These are my only activities: drinking coffee, walking around and making the pictures. These are actually the only things I do. I read books, sure, and I read the newspaper, but I don’t have any real hobbies.” He paused to show me the graveyard he was walking past in Oslo. As he sat on a bench and pulled out a cigarette, I asked about one of his more cryptic posts. “How did you come up with ‘I am Gucci Grandpa?’” “In Norway, the Gucci stores use this old model with white hair, but he looks very good,” Ander- son said. “I see the advertisement all over and it just came to me: Gucci grandpa. Ads are probably the biggest inspiration for me.” His posts often include nods to late capitalism. Internet culture also seems to seep into them. “Do you like memes?” I asked. “No, I’ve never liked memes. I thought they were kind of silly. I realize now that I am making memes. But memes on Instagram that are quickly made, I do not enjoy.” Skeptical, I showed him various memes and asked him if he thought they were funny. Ander- son wasn’t impressed. “I don’t understand it. What does it mean?” I tried another. He wasn’t impressed and seemed floored when I told him that it had over 80,000 likes. “Oh, so people must actually like that,” he declared, subtly surprised. Finally I found one Anderson could appreciate. It was a picture of Microsoft’s Clippy saying “Perhaps it is the file which exists and you that does not.” “I understand that one — the derealization, the idea that people spend time inside and do drugs and spend too much time online; the perfect reci- pe for believing that you are not real. But it’s not for me. I just don’t understand memes, I guess.” He prefers to call his work “high art,” but he knows that people don’t seem to buy that. After a few months of posting, his following exploded, landing articles in publications like Vice, Elle and Rolling Stone. Spinoff accounts cropped up using his personal style — a style that transcends language, culture, and geography. Anderson knows people copy his signature graphics: “It’s an inevitable part of social media,” he told me. “I don’t think too much about it. And I know this won’t last forever.” Mats Anderson still baffles me a bit, but he comes across as genuinely content, and the copy- cats prove that his work is compelling. Maybe he wasn’t kidding when he posted “I am extremely happy. You should be worried.” I am niche campus microcelebrity The affirmations trend spread to campuses, starting with New York University. In the spring, a roommate trio thought that @afffirmations was, “the funniest thing in the world,” so in a group chat, they began sharing hyper-specific affirma- tions-style images created with the photo-editing tool Picsart. By mid-April, they expanded their reach and created a public account with NYU-specific refer- ences like “Not Having AC In Rubin Builds Char- acter.” The account, known as @nyuaffirmations, now boasts over 7,000 followers. The trend spread at a notable pace, with over 30 universities turning to Instagram pages to take part in ironic positivity The affirmations are so specific to their cam- pus that they don’t make sense to non-students. “The rats in Ldub are my friends,” reads a post from a @yale_affirmations; “TU crane is the father figure I never had,” from Tulane; “I will NOT fling myself into the banks of Old Raritan” from Rutgers; “I am big Blacksburg boss” from Virginia Tech. And even with a lack of context, I find the plight of these random campuses to be hysterically charming. When I do understand the context, it’s even better. The University of Michigan’s affirmations page, @umichaffirmations, started in June of this year when an anonymous person decided to tailor the trend to Ann Arbor. Wednesday, November 3, 2021 // The Statement — 2 I AM the college experience: post-ironic affirmations spread to campuses around the world BY ANNIE RAUWERDA, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT Read more at MichiganDaily.com Page Design by Sarah Chung, Brittany Bowman