# Reading Responses (Set 2)

## Reading Responses 5 out of 5
### Nov 3 - Ads & Social graph background
Whether it be a banner, popup, or a curious TikTok ad on my For You page of something I just talked to my friend about, I am deathly afraid of online advertising. Who knew that cookies–something with a name so lighthearted and inoffensive–could map out your entire soul? Your browsing history is more representative of your psyche than you think, and you are always a click away from being force-fed a product on your radar. The way I understand online advertising is that every move on the Internet is tracked and stored away, then used against you. BUY THESE SHOES! BUY THESE SHOES! WE KNOW YOU LIKE THESE SHOES, SO BUY THEM!

But you know what they always say: face your fears. I must admit I am a perpetrator of Online Advertising, and that I used to create ads myself. One social media platform that Stokes failed to discuss was Instagram–my personal favorite. Instagram hosts a slew of different ads, whether it be a post, tag, story, or button leading to a product. As a throwback to my trolling days when I ran a somewhat popular Instagram account, I took part in the world of influencer advertising. I was told to create posts showcasing different products, such as [gemstone rings](https://palacerings.com/) at one point. I was never one to show my face or body in posts however, so I crafted what was called a “niche meme” featuring the rings. What was interesting to me was that online advertising on social media is so controlled by engagement and impressions to the point where a company was willing to pay a faceless specter to create ads for them. I quickly left that realm of my life, as the ads of those products would always come back to haunt me. Face your fears is what they say, but still: I am deathly afraid of online advertising.

### Nov 8 - Manipulated
As said by a popular English adage: bad things come in threes. In the world of online reviews, manipulation comes in a trio: fakers, makers, and takers. Our Internet marketplace stays afloat by means of customer feedback, whether it be a Yelp review of a Mom-And-Pop restaurant, a book critique on GoodReads, or a Tweet mentioning a trending product. In theory, reviews are helpful and provide a sort of guidance to the average customer, but as a rule of thumb almost all good things are juxtaposed with evil. Public opinion can be deceptive–manipulated by fakers who give themselves 5-star reviews or manipulated by makers and takers who are paid or pay for opinions. In the social media atmosphere, “pods” can be created to encourage “back scratching,” a direct reciprocity of likes, comments, engagement, etc. So, then, what makes an honest review?

On a snowy day of April 2013, a man who goes by the name Jeffrey Lambert experienced the sh*t-show of a lifetime (literally) after consuming Haribo Gummy Bears, to which he posted an infamous [Amazon saga](https://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/RZFIYJTPVUZ94/ref=cm_cr_dp_d_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B000EVOSE4) in response.


His particular Amazon review showcases a lengthy yet compelling prose recounting an apparent true story of an airport “fecal deluge,” in which he defecated explosively upon airport agents who were conducting a “cavity search” on him. Though the review is notorious for its comical storytelling, the validity of Jeffrey Lambert’s review is brought into question. Who is Jeffrey Lambert, and what were his motivations for posting such a self-sacrificial story?

Upon [inspection](https://www.reddit.com/r/tipofmytongue/comments/csckwa/comment/exe1f57/) and morbid curiosity, it turns out the Amazon review is a work of metafiction, and Jeffrey Lambert is a faker. I did some more deep-diving, and it is still unclear as to what Lambert’s motivations were, but the notorious review resultantly brought publicity to Haribo. Was Lambert paid by Haribo? Is he an author looking for attention? Or was it an act of martyrdom just for laughs? The truth is unclear. But Lambert’s review will remain legendary, nonetheless.

### Nov 29 - Collapsed context
Gen Z members have been socialized to constantly perform “strategic self-presentation” from “as far back as they can remember,” says Brooke Erin Duffy and Ysabel Gerrard. As a Gen Z user of the Internet from as far back as 4 years old, I grew up in a constant loop of packaging and repackaging online identities. It started with early MMO games like Webkinz and Club Penguin in which you were able to create a new online sense of “self” at a young age. I became my Webkinz characters, and I became my Club Penguin characters. And this notion of creating new digital characters to represent “me” did not leave my adolescence as I pivoted to social media. In 5th grade, I downloaded Instagram and Snapchat for the first time, essentially sealing my fate. I viewed Instagram as the culmination of the “front stage self,” the “self” you want to present to everyone you know–whether it be through a crafty carousel of selfies, or a masterfully curated photo dump to show how “cool” and “ironic” you are. Snapchat, on the other hand, I used more as a “back stage self,” via the private story feature. There were no audiences to please, only a select number of friends that had the honor (or misfortune) of viewing casual snippets of my life. My adolescence online was a battle between these two selves.


My first real dive into imagined audiences was when I began a satirical Instagram blog (more so a [niche meme](https://www.google.com/search?q=niche+meme&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwjsxKvIgNL7AhVdrHIEHW8fC00Q2-cCegQIABAA&oq=niche+meme&gs_lcp=CgNpbWcQAzIFCAAQgAQyBQgAEIAEMgUIABCABDIFCAAQgAQyBQgAEIAEMgUIABCABDIFCAAQgAQyBQgAEIAEMgUIABCABDIFCAAQgAQ6BAgjECc6BwgAEIAEEBg6CAgAEIAEELEDOgQIABBDOgcIABCxAxBDUJgEWN0LYLYMaABwAHgAgAFJiAGfBZIBAjExmAEAoAEBqgELZ3dzLXdpei1pbWfAAQE&sclient=img&ei=3UCFY6ziOt3YytMP776s6AQ&bih=713&biw=1536&rlz=1C1ONGR_enUS965US965) account) in my 9th grade of high school. I became what Alice Marwick and Danah Boyd would call a micro-celebrity, gaining 40,000+ followers and millions of likes. My posts would reach thousands of new accounts every day via the explore page, and as a 14 year old girl, I had absolutely no idea how to handle my newfound “micro-celebrity” status. In the beginning, I did not know or really understand my exact audience, so I took clues from the social media environment: what is the persona of someone who consumes “niche meme” content? I started by pumping out “feminine” content plastered with cutesy PNGs like everyone else, then figured that this wasn’t for me. My content soon pivoted to more generalized, relatable content catered toward what I imagined my audience to be–satirical, trendy, humorous, absolutely absurd content for satirical, trendy, humorous, and absolutely absurd people. And they loved it. I no longer post on this account, but the edgy yet trendy identity that I manufactured for it still lingers in the person I am even today. Definitely not as much as before, but @sleepybreezy still takes up a part of my soul.

### Dec 2 - Authenticity, work, and influence
Influencers are “superficial, frivolous, and even deceitful,” claims Brooke Erin Duffy et al. So what makes an influencer? Is it an offbeat Raid Shadow Legends gameplay plug? Is it Sugar Bear Hair Vitamins that can make you grow Kylie Jenner’s luscious locks? Is it a shameless ad for a vibrator posted in conjunction with an unrelated viral tweet? Influencer culture is the new wave of marketing: companies pay individuals with large social media followings to market their products for them. Taylor Lorenz discusses how influencers view sponsored content similar to “street cred,” or something that grants you more validity in the influencer world. When I was a micro-celebrity pushing 40,000+ followers in my freshman year of high school, I would tell my friends about my new ad deals, and just like Lorenz mentioned: I obtained “street cred.” Sure, the brands I did deals for were only small businesses and not mega corporations or anything like that, but still–ads are King.

Rachel Lerman makes a point about influencers having to upkeep authenticity in relation to their sociopolitical climate, such as during the pandemic or during the Black Lives Matter protests. Businesses had to pivot their content quickly, opting for COVID-friendly sponsorships, or even withholding product launches in politically sensitive times. One influencer that came to mind who faced backlash during the peak of BLM is TikTok star [Charli D’Amelio](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charli_D%27Amelio). Several influencers across the U.S. spoke out about BLM, while Charli remained silent. Her silence was met with severe backlash, with many asking why she wasn’t using her immense influence to make a political statement. Others argued to not expect Charli, who was 16 or so at the time, to say anything with weight related to BLM–she was only 16 and not as educated. I would say I agree that influencers are Influencers–not political activists (unless they’re both). And even though I had the coveted “influencer” status for a short while myself, I would hate to be Charli at the peak of her fame, to constantly have people crawling up her back. I don’t really know if I would ever get back into influencing again, but I have respect for those who are. Some say it’s an illegitimate career. Maybe they’re right. Or maybe it’s an inevitable symptom of a digital world.

### Dec 6 - Pushback
Like a double-edged sword, comments have the ability to inform and improve–while also risking alienation and manipulation. If I were to slay a dragon (let’s say, a book I just read) with my double-edged sword (a GoodReads review), what is the turnout? Will I leave a positive review because I love dragons? Or will I leave a negative review because I think dragons are terrifying? Our state of online communication makes it so that the digital space is a free-for-all, maybe even a Player-Vs.-Player arena. Instead of slaying the dragon, we slay each other. Or sometimes we all slay the dragon together. It’s true: sometimes commenting can unite a community and provide a safe space for opinion-sharing, fostering a climate of positivity. But the opposite is also true: Joseph Reagle’s “Commenterrible” discusses how from bully battles to drama genres, online commenting can be widely inflammatory. The beauty of comment sections is that they are terrible. And I must admit, there is something exciting about watching the flames burn.

Several years ago, a new mobile game seized the market: a legend that goes by the name “Flappy Bird.” And one of its main spaces for online commentary happened to be the app’s review section in the Apple Store. People around the world commented on how Flappy Bird “ruined their life” and how “you can’t escape it,” not because they particularly hated the game, but because the game caused a severe technological addiction. As said by Ricardo Gomez and Stacey Morrison, one of the motivations of pushback is Addiction, or pushing back as a result of technology addiction, and Flappy Bird is a prime example of a widespread pushback against technology addiction. It was as if everyone was in on the “joke,” with talk about how Flappy Bird supposedly “killed their families,” or “brought them to insanity.” But obviously, Flappy Bird did not do this realistically. So, then, who started the chain of “hate” comments? What did the creator of Flappy Bird think of these “hate” comments? Were they taken seriously? Or were they understood as just another Internet meme? Did Flappy Bird’s creator push back against the Pushback? In 2013, it seems there really was no rest for the Devil Bird.