USA Today defines “pretty girl humor” as “conventionally attractive women who attempt to seem quirky or relatable by subverting typically feminine behavior.” Examples of pretty girl humor include an infatuation with the name “Bob,” calling popular and mainstream things “nerdy” and an obsession with outdated memes.

The trend gained traction over Halloween when many women opted for masculine and humorous costumes, such as The Lorax or Hamilton.

[Guillermo del Toro gives new life to ‘Frankenstein’ in latest adaptation]

In response to these comedic attempts, people online expressed gratitude that they grew up weird instead of “pretty” and without a sense of humor. The general consensus seems to be that unattractive people learn to compensate for their looks through humor and pretty people never have to.

This is not a new phenomenon — women online are often dissed for attempts at being relatable. The term “quirky” has held a negative connotation for some time. “Pretty girl humor” calls to mind the mustache-loving millennials of the early 2010s, an all but extinct group that overlaps heavily with the often derided “manic pixie dream girl” concept.

But this trend calls to mind an imperative question —  why are people actually doing this? Seriously.

In an era of fast-paced, gluttonous media consumption, we can all benefit from slowing down and fully unpacking the trends we consume. Why are people using the label “pretty girl humor” to, in essence, make fun of strangers online?

Some viewers may consider this trend a way of “punching up” or resisting the persistent influence of attractive people in our society. Conventionally pretty girls such as Sydney Sweeney seem to gain power from their appearances. Based on this, those with “pretty girl humor” are seen as deserving of the criticism by virtue of their privilege.

Others claim those with “pretty girl humor” are the same type of people who would bully them as children, so criticism of their unfunniness is morally justified.

This form of rationalization is common online: bullying is okay as long as they really deserve it. Bad people are always fair game.

At the same time, some people argue the phrase is an extension of society’s constant criticism of women. Halloween costumes of corsets and stockings are lampooned as provocative and attention-seeking, but self-effacing Lorax staches are cringey and trying too hard to be different. There is no correct way to be.

The real underlying issue with the “pretty people humor” concept goes deeper than everyday internet misogyny. It speaks to the current wave of bullying online that has made social media a hostile landscape.

Why are these people being made fun of? Because their cringiness shows privilege? Because they weren’t teased growing up? The anonymity of online spaces makes these reasons feel more valid than they are. In reality, a person’s unfunniness is not an adequate cause for bullying.

[2026 Grammy nominations signal Recording Academy’s disconnect from pop culture]

Disrespecting strangers is far too normalized on social media. We disregard it and accept that putting oneself online means consenting to hate comments. But trends like these ask us to forget our empathy in favor of a cheap laugh. The more we participate, the more humanity we lose.

No matter what “pretty people” may represent in the grand scheme of our superficial society, we all need to remember that they are people first. Even when they are sporting orange jumpsuits and bushy yellow mustaches, they are people.

And so are we.

When nominations for the 68th Grammy Awards appeared on my Instagram feed, I found myself confused about the selection. There was the expected mix of known names and the up-and-comers who’ve taken over the music scene this year. Despite this, it seems the Grammys don’t understand what’s popular anymore.

When some of this year’s music was first released, I was disappointed. But somewhere between long car rides and TikTok trends, many songs grew on me, such as “Daisies” by Justin Bieber and “No One Noticed” by The Marías. To me, Best New Artist is the most exciting Grammys category. It always feels fresh and unpredictable, but this year it did just the opposite. Instead of being about a new discovery in the music world, this year’s lineup does not give us an accurate look at what’s new. 

Many of the artists nominated are first-time releases this year, but it’s disappointing that young artists who have been nominated in the past can’t have a second chance at this award after producing something new and more successful.

[Guillermo del Toro gives new life to ‘Frankenstein’ in latest adaptation]

The Grammys have always defined the “best” of the industry. But a few artists who really shaped what people were listening to this year are nowhere to be found on the nominations list. Where is Gracie Abrams? Her album, The Secret of Us, debuted at No. 2 on the U.S. Billboard 200,  and her single “That’s So True” hit No. 4 on the Billboard Global 200. She also wrapped up her sold-out world tour, so it feels impossible that someone with that kind of fanbase got skipped. 

Same with pop powerhouse Tate McRae. Her album, So Close To What, debuted No. 1 on the U.S. Billboard 200, and her dance performances have taken over everyone’s feeds. 

And seriously, wasn’t Billie Eilish’s “Wildflower” a 2024 track? Why is it being discussed again? 

The timing of some nominations feels messy, and makes me wonder if the Grammys are so focused on drawing a wide audience by nominating major past winners such as Eilish that they’re forgetting to keep up with pop culture itself and nominate newcomers. It seems the Recording Academy is too distracted by chasing trends — “Wildflower” went viral online — that the public is already attached to, it’s overlooking the music breaking through right now. 

It’s the same issue that makes the Best New Artist lineup feel less exciting. Instead of recognizing who is actually pushing the music industry in a new direction, the Grammys seem to be stuck rewarding who already has. 

Take Wicked, for example. The movie has been a huge cultural moment this year, with its marketing taking over everything from Dunkin’ drinks to eyeshadow palettes, so its soundtrack nominations make sense. 

But it feels like the Grammys are giving awards to what’s most talked about, rather than the actual sounds, messages and talent. Everyone loves a big pop culture moment to bond over, especially one that allows you to belt “Defying Gravity,” but highly marketed music can overshadow smaller albums and artists that truly deserve the same amount of attention. 

The dance-pop category is packed with familiar names such as Lady Gaga and Selena Gomez, which feels nostalgic because of their early 2000s fame, but also predictable as Grammys favorites. 

[Nia Sioux’s ‘Bottom of the Pyramid’ is a powerful, but unsurprising strike at ‘Dance Moms’]

Album of the Year might be the one category that feels strong and competitive. Between Kendrick Lamar, Sabrina Carpenter and Bad Bunny, the nominations reflect the breadth of today’s popular music. 

The Grammys attempt to reflect pop culture, but sometimes can’t find the artists who really define the industry. Music going viral because of social media trends and marketing tactics seem to be defining many of this year’s nominations. 

From months of careful consideration, to late-night trips to the craft store and glitter in my hair until Thanksgiving, the holiday used to be an excess of effort.

Fast-forward to today, some costumes take the opposite approach with solid colors and basic pieces that subtly hint at the idea of a costume. A plain orange tee becomes a pumpkin, a white tank means you’re an angel. There’s no glitter or glue gun, just a simple suggestion.

Vedika Sharma, a freshman computer science and math major, noted the prevalence of this trend in the current Halloween scene.

“People just kind of got lazy. Either that or it’s a thing of trying to blend in with other people and people aren’t doing as creative costumes,” Sharma said.

There’s almost something Impressionist about this trend. Much like Claude Monet’s blurred landscapes or Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s hazy portraits, the “costumes” rely on implication. A single color or accessory gives just enough information to recognize the inspiration.

These costumes are not about transformation— they’re a visual shortcut. They evoke a concept, and the viewer fills in the rest.

“Those are cute, but they’re not really costumes,” Trinity Rosario, a freshman public policy major, said of the simple outfits.

[Embrace your inner theater kid with these Halloween musicals]

Part of the change may be cultural. In an age of fast fashion, social media and busy college schedules, it’s easy to pick convenience over craftsmanship. Many students are undoubtedly drawn to a low-effort look that still allows them to participate in the holiday, something photogenic but uncomplicated.

Michele Petrosino, a freshman hearing and speech sciences major, finds the easier costumes to be refreshing.

“I like them,” she said. “If it’s simple, then, you know, you’re saving money while also celebrating the holiday and having fun.”

Petrosino echoed how limited time and budgets prevent students from being able to hand-make or purchase an outfit they won’t wear often. Simpler costumes can take pressure off celebrating, allowing people to participate without a huge commitment.

For students balancing academic life and social plans, it’s a practical compromise.

Others believe that easy costumes detract from the spirit of the holiday.

“I think if you want to go out and really be part of the Halloween costume festivities, I don’t quite think that counts personally,” Rosario said.

[Lorde stuns with powerful visuals, energy at the ‘Ultrasound’ tour]

To students such as Rosario and Sharma, effort and individuality are part of the fun. Brainstorming a costume, curating a look and committing to a character all make Halloween feel like something bigger, and perhaps something close to the Halloween of our childhoods.

Today, social media plays a major role in shaping how people approach the holiday. The platforms showcase both extremes: viral hyper-detailed outfits and their minimalist counterparts.

It’s a reminder that platforms such as TikTok and Instagram dictate many elements of fashion for any and all occasions. For Halloween costumes, what was once driven by imagination and dedication is now shaped by algorithms.

Sharma said many students view social media as a mood board for outfit ideas.

“People go on social media to get inspiration for what they’re gonna wear, and different clothing trends on social media also influences what people wear for costumes,” she said.

Both sides of the debate still share the same goal: to enjoy the night, have fun and express themselves. Whether that means a last-minute combination of whatever is in your closet or the culmination of months of careful planning, the idea of “dressing up” for Halloween looks different for everyone.

With holiday traditions evolving into simple trends, it seems as if Halloween is losing its spirit and the excitement that came with the uniqueness of traditional costumes.

The answer, as Sharma puts it, may be more straightforward than it seems.

“Put a little creativity into it, you know?”

I’ll miss yelling the occasionally expletive-filled insults to the opposing team at football games.

And I’ll miss the smell of freshly cooked dining hall food, especially when I walked nearly a mile to get the closest thing to the college version of Michelin-star dining. Shoutout Yahentamitsi Dining Hall.

I won’t forget the electric scooter handlebar bell’s threatening ring as it sped past me on the way to exams, or the alarm test that pierced the air at exactly 11:55 a.m. on the first Wednesday of every month.

And I won’t forget the Shuttle-UM buses, delayed, absent or skidding by, barely audible over the nonstop Purple Line construction noise.

I’ll miss it all.

After years of cramming myself into a shoebox-sized room with a roommate or two, I learned to find solace in the little things. On a campus of 40,000 people or more, the chaos and comfort sticks. I can’t help but let them stain my memory for as long as I can.

I hope they stain forever.

It all forms a messy, beautiful puzzle of invaluable joy from four short years — memories that I’m begging myself never to forget.

I don’t want to let go of the little, seemingly annoying things, not because they’ll add flair to the stories I’ll tell my kids one day, but because they’re charmingly tied to the people I love most.

The Maryland merch reminds me of my roommate and the black “UMD” sweatshirt she wore constantly, the aggressive chants of “Fuck Penn State” from high school friends I traveled to college with and the  shared dining hall meals with my sophomore-year roommates, some of whom now share an ‘1106’ tattoo with me on our right arms, permanently marking the time we spent in our Charles Hall suite.

Every part of these four years, the good, bad and ugly, is balanced with a delicate memory, and every memory is tied to someone I love, on a campus I’m heartbroken to leave.

Among those memories are the softer ones, the ones from McKeldin Mall, the heart of our campus.

We chased 70-degree days in shorts and tank tops, laughter carried on the breeze.

We stretched out on itchy grass that pokes through carefully-placed blankets, surrounded by lovers, friends, foes and even past versions of ourselves. Most wear headphones, but somehow it always feels like we’re listening to the same playlist.

Even beyond the evergreen friendships and mall grass, I found a quiet connection on the benches at the Memorial Chapel, shaded by a sweeping willow tree.

Beneath each bench are handheld journals filled with pages of thoughts from people I may never meet.

I wrote in nearly every journal and found comfort in that shared, anonymous space. I read about someone’s failed exam and about breakups that shattered someone’s world, and the hopeful words they left behind for an ex.

There was community, unspoken but deeply felt.

Being a senior feels a lot like the bridge in “Ribs” by Lorde, like the fleeting breeze that brushes across scattered blankets on McKeldin Mall, like the blur of faces you pass every day on a commute to class.

And suddenly you realize you’ll never see them again.

Being a senior feels terrifying, but this university is a forever kind of home. It’s not just the basketball games, tailgates or the matching Terrapin Red jerseys that keep us connected.

It’s the quiet moments, when time slows down and everyone shares a slice of their world.

That’s what makes this place worth remembering. That’s what makes it worth shedding a tear over when I toss my cap in the air.

And for everyone walking the stage: slow down, appreciate the beautiful chaos of it all. Let it stain your memory, too.

In popular “day in my life” videos, internet users wake up at 6 a.m. to go to the gym, eat their daily dose of Coconut Cult and pose for the camera in a head-to-toe Alo or Lululemon set. 

Coconut Cult is the latest online health craze, quite literally sparking a cult following after a surge of TikToks and Instagram posts promoted the probiotic yogurt. 

Their website — chock-full of cute graphics and a millennial pink color scheme — indicates that Coconut Cult contains 16 probiotic strains, all aimed at improving gut health. The brand appears approachable, trendy and hits all the right notes for health-crazed internet users.  

[‘Mickey 17’ is a rare misstep for director Bong Joon-ho]

Coconut Cult is one of many health products marketed to people in their teens and 20s, inviting us to constantly think about our insecurities.  

There is a product for every part of yourself that you’re unhappy with. Need greens? Try Bloom superfood powder. Want glowing skin? Vital Proteins collagen peptides are your fix. Bloating too much after meals? Coconut Cult is your answer.  

All of these brands have deceptively simple packaging that captures younger audiences with block colors, clean fonts and uncluttered labels. Coconut Cult also made its way into the hands of social media influencers who tick boxes for unrealistic body standards, own expensive sneakers, live in wealthy zip codes and flaunt perfect boyfriends. 

This latest probiotic yogurt feels like another addition to the “clean girl aesthetic,” or, depending on how you look at it, mirage.

The Clean Girl is Gen Z’s attempt at creating their own TikTok Jungian archetypes. A Clean Girl goes to a daily pilates class. A Clean Girl drinks espresso martinis with her friends, but still maintains a perfect work-life balance. A Clean Girl definitely takes her probiotic yogurt so that she doesn’t look bloated in her Agolde jeans. 

Clean Girl is more than an aesthetic, it’s a lifestyle. But realistically, it’s an unobtainable way to live. Unless you want to spend $10 on a jar of trendy, colorful yogurt at Whole Foods or a few hundred dollars a month for an Equinox membership, the Clean Girl life takes a dent to your wallet and self esteem. 

Not only are we bombarded with seemingly perfect bodies, but with perfect lives. 

[Doechii’s ‘Anxiety’ is everything wrong with modern sampling]

Day in my life videos are accompanied by montages of perfectly put together outfits, healthy eating, gaggles of friends and European vacations. Our generation was warned about the artifice of social media, but that’s all our feeds are filled with. 

Content creators are so excited to find the elusive yogurt that they’re filming themselves scoring Coconut Cult with videos titled “where and when I found Coconut Cult” or “POV: Whole Foods restocks coconut cult.” Internet users seem quick to jump on bandwagons — even when they might not know exactly where they’re heading. 

Coconut Cult is another brick in the path paved to a healthy, clean lifestyle. But while you’re taking as many supplements as possible and stocking up on jars of probiotic yogurt, chances are the internet has already moved on to the next big thing. 

Three African Student Associations from Prince George’s County — Largo High School, Dr. Henry A. Wise Jr. High School and DuVal High School — competed for a $500 cash prize in four rounds of traditional and contemporary African dance styles.

This year’s battle introduced a new element: marching pink guards and red light, green light dance offs, inspired by the viral success of Squid Game season two.

“We were really thinking, ‘What could we incorporate for the students to have fun while dancing, but also playing games at the same time?’” Afrochique president Hillary Konadu, a senior family science major, said.

For the first time, Afrochique assigned prominent local dance coaches to lead each team and help students formulate stylistic choreography.

Afrobeat dancer Enny Makanejuola, who competed against Afrochique as a Bowie State University student in 2022, returned as Largo High School’s coach in the battles.

[Meet ‘Pogo Stick Guy’: How Ajitesh Kaladi bounced his way to campus fame]

With anticipation high in a crowd packed with friends and family, the night began on an ominous note, as two pink guards paced across the stage to Squid Game theme music. An introduction by the charismatic host, LJ the Great, lightened the mood with jokes that sent waves of laughter through the audience.

The battles unfolded over four rounds: creative, traditional, duos and head-to-head freestyle.

In the creative round, students performed open-ended dances with no set theme, allowing them to freely innovate on stage.

Largo’s dancers, dressed as synchronized flight attendants, moved in tandem under the command of a strict pilot, complete with briefcases and metal detector props.

Wise’s team bounced across the stage in pinks and purples as Barbie-esque Afrodolls. DuVal closed with a roaring 1920s flapper routine, cartwheeling and backflipping to a Charleston swing.

For the traditional round, each team was assigned an African country. Largo, DuVal and Wise channelled the Ivory Coast, Nigeria and Cameroon, respectively, as the students weaved national stories of identity and perseverance against political strife.

Energy in the theater reached a fever pitch as cheers erupted, the bass thumped and shrill whistles cut through the air. At times, the entire crowd seemed to move as a cohesive unit to the unceasing rhythm.

The duos round pitted two students from each team against each other. Largo’s dancers simulated an undead puppet master routine, Wise’s students transformed into corporate Barbie dolls and DuVal’s pair battled Squid Game-style in a tense head to head.

[Revisit this award season’s best acceptance speeches before the Oscars]

For the final round, freestyle, one student from each team improvised to an African music genre chosen by the DJ. The competition officially ended, but the celebration continued as audience members flooded the stage for a massive group dance that shook Stamp.

“That was the best thing I could ever ask for,” Konadu said. “It was lovely.”

When the judges announced DuVal as the champion, deafening cheers erupted among the audience. Wise placed second and Largo took third.

Afrochique treasurer Chinwe Kalu emphasized how impactful the $500 cash prize could be.

“For some, it may not be a lot, but we know it really carries weight, especially within the dance community,” the junior business marketing and psychology said. “Five hundred can really take you a long way.”

Makanejuola, beaming with pride, had no doubt about the students’ talent.

“They did great,” Makanejuola said. “I’m so proud of them.”

Konadu emphasized the importance of giving high school students a platform through an Afrochique dance battle.

“We love putting on this performance. We love community. We love having the opportunity to bring the high schoolers out of their shell,” Konadu said.

Earle, dressed in a scantily star-shaped bikini and a low-rise denim skirt, perches atop a convertible, presenting the Carl’s Jr. Hangover Burger. At first glance, the ad seems like a bizarre satire of what America supposedly represents: burgers, bikinis and blonde bombshells.

The TikTok influencer joins Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton and Kate Upton as a model for the West Coast burger chain, but also helped reignite a political debate. Conservatives embraced Earle’s not-so-conservative bikini commercial, while liberal America criticizes it for promoting unrealistic body image and anti-feminist ideals.

[Maryland Opera Studios reimagines fairy tale in its operatic show ‘Fishwife’]

Known for her TikTok videos, NFL player boyfriend Braxton Berrios and an it-girl posse that never seems to stop partying, Earle commands a massive online following. With more than 11 million followers amassed from just Instagram and TikTok, she holds an ungodly amount of social capital. Naturally, she would be the perfect choice for the revival of the Carl’s Jr. burger girl.

The commercial seemed to land for those who were unfamiliar with her stardom, even though it contradicts much of what she promotes on social media. Earle is known for speaking candidly about her struggles with body image, confidence and acne. On her podcast Hot Mess, she’s opened up about her battle with diet culture and disordered eating.”

For a woman who strives to be a role model for younger girls online, Earle certainly perpetuates extreme beauty standards. Her chiseled abs appearing in the same frame as the double-patty, bacon-and-cheese-filled burger feels like a hot red contradiction.

But if you look past Earle’s model-esque figure, the oversized burger and the iconic Hollywood set, the contradictions and surface-level hypocrisies start to make sense. In slow motion, she takes a bite of the burger, sending ketchup spraying onto a man’s face.

[Certified flop: ‘Some Sexy Songs 4 U’ reminds us why Drake lost]

This disheveled man, sprawled out in a wife beater tank, seems to parody the very people awed by Earle’s figure and role in the ad. Ironically, though, this same group has embraced the burger ad as a fast-food-themed manifesto for returning to “American values.”

YouTube comments celebrating supposed traditionalism displayed in the commercial reveal how comically the ad has been misinterpreted. The commercial is deliberately impossible and over the top.

For the body positivity crusaders, Earle’s bikini clad figure isn’t meant to be an aspiration, but another element of this humorous Americana fantasy. Instead of offering a credible commentary and reflection of American culture, Carl’s Jr. is poking fun at what America deems “correct.”

This tongue-in-cheek attitude shines through the extravagant fireworks, hordes of extras and Earle’s over the top costume. For some, the ad feels like a clear attempt to put America back on track, but its comedy has sailed right over their heads — into a fictional world where bikini models devour burgers and “real women” drape themselves over convertibles every day.

“Please fall dead,” one flashing Cuckoo rice cooker ordered another, drawing hysterical laughter from the audience at Kogod Theatre.

Performer Jaha Koo weaved a humorous yet sobering reflection on the tumultuous past 20 years of South Korean political events, economic disaster and suicide in Cuckoo, a performance and Q&A hosted by The Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center on Thursday night.

Through a fusion of deafening electronic music, harsh, textured visuals and somber narration, the piece notably features two singing and swearing Cuckoo rice cookers, Duri and Seri, alongside a third, Hana, who is ridiculed for lacking a voice and only being able to cook rice.

Koo chose Cuckoo rice cookers as cast members after experiencing loneliness when his own Cuckoo — an iconic staple in South Korean households — sang to him that his rice was finished cooking. 

During the Q&A panel following the event, he revealed he originally didn’t know the rice cookers would be so sassy, but they evolved into their hilarious, beeping selves during the piece’s development.

[Kendrick Lamar defied ‘nightmare venue’ with innovative halftime performance]

He also discussed the conception and execution of the talking Cuckoos, which were modified to feature his own music and simulated voices by a Berlin-based white hat hardware hacker.

The interactions between the rice cookers provide moments of comic relief in the often heartbreaking show, which grapples with the increased suicide rates in the wake of South Korea’s experience during the 1997 Asian financial crisis. Koo refers to this period as a time of “isolation without help,” when South Koreans had to fend for themselves in a struggling economy following the strict conditions of the International Monetary Fund’s bailout.

In one of the most harrowing moments of the show, Koo recounts his memories with a close friend, Jerry, who took his own life in 2011. Koo admits struggling with Jerry’s death after moving to the United States and receiving no answers about his passing.

In another arresting segment, Koo criticizes the former United States Secretary of the Treasury Robert Rubin as being responsible for South Korea’s hardship in the 1990s. A bass drum throbs and synths soar in a Rubin-themed song as Koo slowly lifts the lids of the singing Cuckoo rice cookers to reveal Rubin’s face. He eventually dons a Rubin mask himself while lighting two sparklers.

In the Q&A, Koo discussed his intentions with the piece and the audience he hoped to reach.  

“Of course, I’m talking about South Korean issues,” Koo told The Diamondback. “But it’s not only about South Korean issues. I think it’s related to so many countries at the same time, I have to provoke the reality.”

[As CDepot closes, nostalgia for physical media lives on]

Koo recounted how his performance of Cuckoo in Athens was met by weeping audience members. He later learned that Greece, like South Korea, had faced similar International Monetary Fund bailouts.

Students at this university attended Cuckoo and were intrigued and inspired by Koo’s performance. “I hadn’t been to a show that was that personal,” said Noah Milholland, a sophomore mechanical engineering student. “There’s a lot of humor that I think was worked in really well, but it also carried a really important message.”

Sophomore aerospace engineering major Carlos Acosta was also impressed by the show.

“I liked the editing of it all, mixing with the musical components,” Acosta added. “He found ways that really would showcase certain emotions … It was great.”

Koo doesn’t think he can change the world as just one human being. 

“But somehow, it’s my artistic responsibility,” Koo said. “I believe that there is still valid urgency to share this work.” 

“10 Things I Hate About You” – Leah Kate

Leah Kate crafted the best anti-Valentine’s Day anthem for anyone looking to throw some shade at an ex. While the song takes its name from the 1999 film 10 Things I Hate About You, it resembles Miley Cyrus’ “7 Things,” with the chorus similarly composed of a list of things Kate hates about her ex. The last lyric hits hard: “One, I hate the fact that you made me love you.”

“10 Things I Hate About You” is the perfect guitar-heavy, pop-punk song that screams “screw you” in 10 different ways. On a more relatable note, Kate admits that she sometimes misses her ex but quickly remembers the reasons for her disdain as she lists their faults.

Though I was over my ex by the time I first heard this song, it dragged back all the negativity I had tried to leave behind. Kate yelling at me in the song was one of my first experiences with female rage. It was honestly healing to hear someone else sing all the things I felt, solidifying music as a therapeutic outlet.

“Bloodsucker” – Cil

Cil’s vocal tone in “Bloodsucker” is too good. With a touch of raspiness and edge, she sings to someone who drains the life out of her. The song gives major main character energy — she knows her worth and isn’t about to settle for a “bloodsucker” when she can get a “real man” who’ll know how to treat her right.

It’s not so much a break-up anthem as it is a rejection, making it an even bigger power move. It’s an unapologetic affirmation that love should not feel like a chore. We’ve all experienced someone who’s all take but no give. This song is a fierce reminder that being alone is better than being with someone who isn’t ready to give you the love you deserve. Toxic energy has no room here.

“No Te Deseo el Mal” – Eladio Carrión and Karol G

I had to throw in a Spanish song because, honestly, no one writes break-up and love songs like we do. “No Te Deseo el Mal” is definitely the perfect example of moving on with no hard feelings … right?

Wrong. Though the title translates to “I don’t wish you any harm,” the chorus tells a different story. The singers get creative with their lines against their exes, such as when both Carrión and Karol G wish their exes light a cigarette while filling up their cars’ gas tanks.

The art of moving on at its finest and prettiest.

[Cafes are historical literary hubs, not modern ‘third spaces’]

“In My Bag” – Flo ft. GloRilla

We’ve all heard it’s important to love yourself before you love anyone else. “In My Bag” is the perfect anthem to vibe to and boost your confidence. The trio and GloRilla sing and rap about being that bitch and manifesting all the good things in life. We’re all here at this university to get our degrees and our bags, so pop off, be confident and lock in this semester.

Focus on yourself and let everyone know you’re on your shit, just like Stella Quaresma and Jorja Douglas sing.

“SITTING IN TRAFFIC” – Ruel

This one isn’t dedicated to an ex but speaks to those who feel their relationship slowly declining. It’s a depressing, pessimistic take on romance, with Ruel sitting in traffic, assuming his partner will eventually fall out of love.

This is one of my favorite songs because while you can be in a healthy relationship, it’s not always sunshine and rainbows. There’s a lot of insecurity that comes with love. It’s beautifully haunting, especially in the chorus when Ruel sings, “Darling, don’t hate me when you’re not in love / Darling, don’t break me when it’s all too much.”

[Kendrick Lamar defied ‘nightmare venue’ with innovative halftime performance]

“Cupid (Twin Version)” – Fifty Fifty

A song titled “Cupid” might seem too on-brand, but it’s anything but. The “Twin Version” is the English version of the original, sung only by two of the group’s members. It manages to keep the charm of bubblegum pop vibes while presenting petty lyrics about Cupid screwing them over and making them feel like a fool for falling in love.

Despite the cutesy, feel-good vocals, “Cupid” is another perfect anti-Valentine’s Day anthem. Instead of celebrating love, the song pokes at the idea that love just might not be for them as they sing, “Surrounded by couples all the time / I guess I should take it as a sign.”

Kendrick Lamar took the stage fresh off his whirlwind year that started with the most explosive rap beef since the 90s and closed with the sudden release of his album GNX. 

The Super Bowl halftime show consistently sets high expectations. Legendary performances are hailed for years while disappointments are ridiculed tirelessly. 

It’s truly a nightmare venue. The arena is too big for the audience to feel any intimacy with the performer and the audio is difficult to understand through television sets across the country. The songs are cut down to fit into the demanding time slot and the required censorship often kills rap performers’ carefully crafted flows. 

[Country music lost its way, ‘Cowboy Carter’ Grammy wins can change that]

The show often feels empty. It can’t quite embody the feel of a concert because it isn’t — it’s a glorified intermission that never pleases. Even when the performance is lauded as a success, it’s never good enough for the millions watching.  

But Lamar didn’t seem to mind whether or not people liked his performance — he conveyed a deeper significance. Opening with Samuel L. Jackson as “Uncle Sam” in a nod to Lamar’s 2015 opus To Pimp a Butterfly, the rapper made it clear that he understood what the performance was supposed to be about and he didn’t care.

He goes back-and-forth with Jackson’s embodiment of the acceptable American mainstream  — playing along and toning down at times to play hits like “Humble” and “All the Stars,” as palatable choices approved by Jackon’s character. 

But it felt inevitable that Lamar would subvert this. No one would expect him to be happy just playing the hits, keeping Uncle Sam happy — he’s never been about that. Instead, he gave the country what it wanted, tongue-in-cheek, for a just bit. 

He could’ve ended it there with the hits. “That’s what America wants, nice and calm,” said Uncle Sam, but his words got lost in the unmistakable intro to Not Like Us, finally playing in full after being teased throughout the show several times.

Lamar seemed giddy, smiling at the camera throughout. But it was about much more than the year-long beef with Drake, which he made clear into the microphone as the song started.

“Forty acres and a mule, this is bigger than the music,” he rapped in reference to the unfulfilled promise made to formerly enslaved people after the Civil War — another callback to the To Pimp a Butterfly era where he repeatedly uses the reference in his lyrics. 

Although “Not Like Us” appeared to be the crowd favorite, it was always bigger than Drake and Kendrick. It was about the culture that Lamar brought on stage at the Super Bowl. It was a celebration of how far Lamar and other rappers have come. 

It seemed the most important thing was not what songs he played, but bringing his conscious lyricism and a cultural moment to the biggest stage in the world. Lamar’s performance remained unapologetic, which was the only outcome that made sense for a rapper who constantly reinvents the game at every level.

[The Weeknd takes a melancholy victory lap on ‘Hurry Up Tomorrow’]

Outside musical elements, the visuals and choreography hinted at both unity and polarization. The dancers wore red, white and blue while tearing themselves apart and putting themselves together. At certain points, the performers formed the American flag or symbolized Lamar’s goal of uniting Los Angeles gangs on a single stage, as he verbalizes in “reincarnated” from his latest album: “I put one hundred hoods on one stage.”

A celebration was in order. Lamar welcomed the hatred and spite and spun it around in a way only he could. Halfway through the “Great American Game,” as christened by Jackson’s Uncle Sam, Lamar made a statement. 

From his roots in Compton to the Super Bowl, he brought a cultural movement with him that recognizes itself as an unapologetic force. Once again, it was bigger than the music.