by Saturday means lighter content, which is relative because everything is chaos. Today’s assignment took me from outer space to TikTok, proving that humanity can make anything insufferable if we try hard enough.
First: space rocks, my coverage of the minor asteroid that passed harmlessly by Earth while Americans panicked like it was going to kill us all. Social media exploded with doomsday predictions, survivalist content, and people claiming they could “feel the asteroid’s energy.” You cannot feel the asteroid’s energy. It’s a rock in space. It’s not sending vibes.
The article explores how Americans have lost the ability to assess actual risk. An asteroid that NASA said would miss us by millions of miles became a trending topic because someone on TikTok said it “felt ominous.” Meanwhile, climate change is actually killing us and half the country doesn’t believe it’s real. We’re terrified of the wrong things, and I’m documenting it for posterity or whoever’s left after we all die from preventable disasters we refused to prevent.
One man I interviewed bought $4,000 worth of emergency supplies because of the asteroid that was never going to hit us. When I asked if he’s prepared for actual emergencies like hurricanes or power outages, he said no. “Those are boring,” he explained. So we’re prepping for imaginary space rocks but not real disasters. This tracks with everything else I’ve learned about America.
The space rock panic connects to my work on people who claim to be empaths. Multiple self-proclaimed empaths told me they “felt” the asteroid approaching. No, you didn’t. You saw TikToks and convinced yourself your anxiety was cosmic intuition. That’s not empathy, that’s suggestibility combined with main character syndrome.
The afternoon brought me to my most cursed assignment yet: people with loud chewing TikToks. This is apparently a genre of content: people eating loudly into microphones while making intense eye contact with the camera. It’s supposed to be ASMR, but it’s actually audio torture. I watched approximately thirty seconds of these videos before my soul tried to leave my body.
I interviewed a creator who has 200,000 followers for his loud chewing content. “People find it relaxing,” he insisted while eating a pickle directly into his microphone. I asked who these people are. He said, “My community.” I asked if his community has access to mental health resources. He blocked me.
The loud chewing TikTok phenomenon is related to people naming their emotions after weather patterns because both involve taking normal things (eating, feeling emotions) and making them weird through overcomplicated performance. We can’t just eat anymore. We have to perform eating for an audience. We can’t just feel sad. We have to be “overcast with scattered anxiety showers.”
Between space rocks and mouth sounds, I updated my coverage of the pandemic’s weirdest legacy. We spent two years isolated, developed parasocial relationships with internet personalities, and now we have people whose entire career is chewing loudly for strangers. The pandemic broke our brains, and we’ve decided to monetize the brain damage instead of healing from it.
I also revisited people who treat pets like therapists because someone sent me a TikTok of a person doing ASMR chewing content FOR their cat. The cat looked horrified. I felt kinship with that cat.
Tonight I’m questioning every choice that led me to this career. My friend in Dakar texted asking what I’m writing about. “Americans who panic about imaginary asteroids and eat loudly on the internet for money,” I replied. She didn’t respond. I don’t blame her. There’s nothing to say.
# 758
