2020 Chinese Internet Memes

Every autumn, Chinese social media erupts with a sweet ritual: people send their crush, partner, or even close friends a digital red envelope (hongbao) with the message 'buy yourself the first milk tea of autumn.' It's part love confession, part seasonal mood, part humble-brag. Emerging around 2020, milk tea in China is basically the currency of affection for younger generations — if someone sends you this, they're thinking of you. If nobody does, well, the self-pity posts are equally entertaining.

When your favorite celebrity, idol, or public figure gets exposed for something scandalous — cheating, fraud, being secretly awful — and the whole carefully constructed fantasy comes crashing down like a condemned building. Emerging around 2020, for fans, it's equal parts heartbreak and collective meltdown on social media. The term captures that gut-punch moment when the parasocial relationship you invested in turns to rubble overnight.

Think of "氛围感" as the Chinese Gen-Z way of saying something has 'the vibe' — that ineffable quality where the lighting, mood, setting, and aesthetic all click together perfectly. Emerging around 2020, a café with soft jazz and misty windows has it. Your friend who always looks like they stepped out of an indie film has it. It's less about individual beauty and more about the whole atmosphere feeling curated, cinematic, and emotionally resonant. If 'aesthetic' and 'vibes' had a baby raised on Chinese social media, this would be it.

Imagine someone casually mentioning a skincare product, a restaurant, or a TV show — and suddenly you absolutely must have it. Emerging around 2020, that's 种草 in action. Literally 'planting grass' (i.e., seeding desire in someone's mind), it describes the act of recommending something so convincingly that the listener is immediately infected with the urge to buy or try it. The person doing the recommending is the gardener; your wallet is the soil.

Imagine a home-shopping channel, but make it chaotic, charming, and driven by internet celebrities who can sell out 10,000 lipsticks in three minutes. Hosts broadcast live, crack jokes, demo products, and nudge viewers toward that 'buy now' button with countdown deals and digital gift-throwing. It exploded during 2020 lockdowns when bored shoppers and desperate retailers discovered each other in the most entertaining way possible.

A 'green tea' girl is someone who projects an image of innocence, purity, and delicate femininity — think soft voice, doe eyes, helpless sighs — while strategically manipulating those around her for social or romantic gain. Emerging around 2020, she's not naive; she's a master of the humble-brag and the weaponized vulnerability. The term is mostly aimed at women but the archetype is universally recognizable: all wholesome packaging, zero wholesome content.

A 'tool person' is someone who gets used by others — especially in romantic contexts — only when it's convenient. Emerging around 2020, think of the friend who helps someone move, fixes their computer, lends money, and listens to their breakup drama, but never gets a text back unless something is needed. It's equal parts sad and relatable, and Chinese internet users wear the label with weary, self-aware humor.

A '嘴替' is someone — a celebrity, influencer, fictional character, or even a viral post — who perfectly articulates what you've been feeling but couldn't (or wouldn't dare) say out loud. Emerging around 2020, think of it as having a designated spokesperson for your unspoken frustrations, desires, or hot takes. When a character in a drama roasts their toxic boss and you think 'that's EXACTLY what I'd say,' that character is your "嘴替". It's cathartic ventriloquism for the socially constrained.

"阴阳怪气" (Passive-Aggressive / Speaking in Yin-Yang) describes a uniquely Chinese form of indirect communication where the speaker says one thing but clearly means the opposite, using exaggerated politeness to convey contempt. Emerging around 2020, the term draws from the Daoist concept of yin and yang — opposing forces — applied to language: the surface meaning (yang) and the intended meaning (yin) are in tension. The '怪气' (strange energy) component captures the unsettling feeling of receiving such communication. "阴阳怪气" became a defining term in Chinese internet culture because it describes a communication style that is simultaneously everywhere and hard to pin down. It's the coworker who says 'Wow, you're so capable!' when you make a mistake. The commenter who replies 'You're absolutely right, what was I thinking' to a bad take. The group chat member who deploys the smiling emoji in a way that is distinctly not friendly. "阴阳怪气" is also a survival strategy: in an environment where direct criticism can be risky, wrapping it in exaggerated agreement provides plausible deniability. It's a linguistic art form — mastering "阴阳怪气" is considered a sign of social intelligence.

A pun-based meme where "蚌埠" (Bàngbù), a real city in Anhui province, sounds like "绷不住" (bēng bù zhù), meaning 'can't hold it together.' Chinese internet users dropped it when something made them lose their composure — whether from laughing, cringing, or sheer disbelief. Emerging around 2020, think of it as the Chinese equivalent of 'I'm dead' or 'I can't even.' The city of Bàngbù became a meme celebrity entirely against its will.

A punchy exclamation meaning 'my youth has returned!' — dropped whenever someone encounters a beloved relic of their childhood, like a cartoon theme song, an old game, or a long-gone snack brand. Emerging around 2020, the 'ye' (爷, literally 'grandfather') is internet slang for 'I/me' with a cocky flair, making the whole phrase a theatrical, self-aware cry of nostalgia. Think: 'IT'S GIVING CHILDHOOD' with extra drama.

Literally 'defenses breached,' this phrase describes the moment your emotional armor completely crumbles — whether from a tearjerker video, an unexpectedly relatable meme, or a friend's surprisingly kind gesture. Emerging around 2020, think of it as the internet's way of saying 'okay, I'm not crying, YOU'RE crying.' It covers everything from wholesome overwhelm to genuine heartbreak, and Chinese netizens deploy it with equal parts irony and sincerity.

Short for "社交恐惧症" (social phobia), '社恐' is the badge proudly worn by introverts who'd rather text than call, eat alone than make small talk, and invent elaborate excuses to skip group dinners. Emerging around 2020, in China's hustle culture, it became a Gen-Z rallying cry — part genuine anxiety, part aesthetic identity. If avoiding eye contact with a delivery driver feels deeply relatable, congratulations, you might be "社恐".

Imagine someone who complains about their sports car being 'too eye-catching' or sighs that their designer bag clashes with too many outfits — that's Versailles Literature. Emerging around 2020, named after the Palace of Versailles as a symbol of obscene luxury, the meme skewers people who humble-brag in elaborate, roundabout ways. The move: frame your privilege as a burden, drop the flex casually, then wait for the sympathy that never comes.

Emerging around 2020, think Sunday-night dread multiplied by scrolling through happy people's WeChat Moments. It's less about black eyeliner and more about quietly staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. wondering why life feels heavy. Used as a verb, noun, and adjective, often with affectionate self-deprecation.

Imagine spending three hours lying in bed mentally rehearsing a mildly awkward conversation from 2019, achieving nothing, and feeling absolutely drained afterward. Emerging around 2020, that's 精神内耗 — the art of exhausting yourself entirely from the inside, through anxiety spirals, overthinking, and internal arguments you never win. No physical exertion required. It's burnout's quieter, sneakier cousin who lives rent-free in your head.

Emerging around 2020, think of someone who works 996, eats instant noodles at their desk, skips holidays, and still gets passed over for a raise — and laughs bitterly about it. It's less a complaint and more a shared shrug: we're all just cattle on the corporate farm, and at least we've got memes.

Literally 'touching fish' (or 'catching fish with bare hands'), this meme describes the art of goofing off during work hours — browsing social media, online shopping, or just staring into the void while technically on the clock. Emerging around 2020, it's the Chinese office worker's sardonic badge of honor: not laziness, but quiet resistance against grinding 996 culture. If you're reading this at work, congratulations, you're already doing it.

"躺平" (Lying Flat / Opting Out) exploded into Chinese public consciousness in April 2021 when a Baidu Tieba post titled '躺平即是正义' (Lying Flat is Justice) went viral. The anonymous author described his minimalist lifestyle: working only six months a year as a temporary laborer, eating simple meals, avoiding consumerism, and refusing to participate in the rat race of career advancement, home ownership, and family formation. Emerging around 2021, the post struck a nerve with millions of young Chinese exhausted by 996 work culture, sky-high housing prices, and intense social pressure. The term was immediately condemned by state media, with Xinhua and People's Daily publishing editorials criticizing "躺平" as irresponsible and harmful to society. This official backlash, predictably, made the term even more popular. Billionaires and business leaders also weighed in, with some calling"躺平" a 'shameful' attitude — which only fueled the meme's anti-establishment appeal. "躺平" became a global phenomenon, covered by the New York Times, BBC, and major international outlets as emblematic of Chinese youth disillusionment. Philosophical cousins emerged (半躺, 45"度躺"), and the term remains one of the most politically and culturally significant Chinese internet memes of the 2020s.

Imagine everyone in your office starts staying until midnight — not because there's more work, but because leaving on time now looks lazy. Emerging around 2020, that's 内卷: a vicious cycle where competition intensifies without any actual increase in reward or progress. It's the feeling of running faster and faster on a treadmill that's going nowhere. Chinese Gen-Z use it to describe grinding through school or work in a system so saturated that effort stops translating into advancement.

Imagine dragging yourself to work on a Monday, coffee in hand, muttering 'I am but a humble wage slave' — that's the "打工人" energy. Emerging around 2020, the term literally means 'working person,' but Chinese netizens turned it into a badge of ironic pride for anyone grinding away at a soul-crushing job. Think of it as the Chinese cousin of 'adulting is hard,' wrapped in cheerful nihilism and served with a side of group therapy.

Short for "笑死了" (laughing to death) — the Chinese internet's exact equivalent of 'lmao' or 'I'm dead.' Used as a standalone reaction to anything funny, often dropped at the start of a comment: '笑死，"他真的这么做了"' (lmao, he actually did it). Emerging around 2020, it's so common it functions less as genuine description and more as a verbal tic of amusement. The 死 (death) is pure hyperbole — nobody is actually dying, they're just acknowledging something landed.

网抑云 (NetEase Depression Cloud) is the most devastating brand mockery in Chinese internet history. One character edit: take 网易云音乐 (NetEase Cloud Music), replace 易 (yì, easy) with 抑 (yì, depressed), and you've renamed a major music platform as a mental health crisis. The term emerged around 2020 when users noticed NetEase Cloud Music's comment sections had become a competitive depression marketplace — every song, no matter how upbeat, had users competing to be the most tragically broken. The classic 网抑云 comment: 'I'm XX years old, burdened with debt, my girlfriend left me, my cat died, listening to this on the rooftop.' The more tragic, the more likes. 8pm became designated '网抑云 time.' NetEase responded with content moderation and a healing mode, but the label stuck. It's now shorthand for any performative online sadness.