2017 Chinese Internet Memes

Literally meaning 'cold' or 'chilly,' 凉凉 is used to declare that something — a plan, a dream, a career, your dignity — has officially died. Emerging around 2017, think of it as the Chinese equivalent of 'welp, that's done for.' It carries a resigned, self-deprecating humor: you're not crying about your failure, you're eulogizing it with a smirk. Widely spread after going viral in online communities, it became the go-to phrase for anyone whose day, week, or life went sideways.

Think of 'emmm' as the Chinese internet's polite way of saying 'that's... a choice.' It's a drawn-out hesitation sound used to express skepticism, mild disbelief, or tactful disagreement without committing to an outright confrontation. The more m's you add, the deeper the shade being thrown. It went viral in 2017 and became the go-to response whenever someone encounters something questionable but doesn't want the drama of saying so directly.

"Xià tóu" literally means "head going down" — the opposite of "shàng tóu" (getting hyped or infatuated). Emerging around 2017, it describes that split-second moment when someone does or says something so cringeworthy, tone-deaf, or off-putting that all your positive feelings for them evaporate on the spot. Think: guy is charming all evening, then makes one misogynistic joke — instant xià tóu. It's the internet's most efficient verdict on a vibe-killer.

Imagine that dizzy, intoxicated rush when something grabs you so completely you lose all self-control — that's 上头. Emerging around 2017, originally describing the heady kick of strong liquor, it evolved to cover any obsession that 'goes to your head': a new crush, a binge-worthy drama, a catchy song, or a gaming addiction. It carries a gleeful self-awareness, like proudly admitting you've lost the battle against your own fixation.

"Dǎ liǎn" literally means "slapping the face," but online it describes the delicious moment when reality contradicts someone's bold claim, prediction, or brag so thoroughly that it's like a public smack to their credibility. Emerging around 2017, think of a pundit who swore a team would lose, only to watch them win in a landslide. The internet gleefully screams "打脸!" It's schadenfreude with a poetic name — karma arriving not quietly but with a loud, satisfying slap.

Ever watched someone poke a hornets' nest and think 'well, they earned that'? Emerging around 2017, that's zuō sǐ in action. It describes the uniquely human habit of deliberately doing something you know will end badly — provoking a partner, skipping deadlines, or telling your boss exactly what you think. It's not stupidity; it's a kind of reckless self-sabotage that Chinese internet culture watches with equal parts horror and delight.

Imagine someone not just shooting themselves in the foot, but doing it with flair, creativity, and an almost impressive commitment to their own downfall. Emerging around 2017, '花式作死' describes the art of spectacularly sabotaging yourself or provoking disaster in inventive, almost admirable ways — whether it's talking back to your boss on WeChat, going viral for all the wrong reasons, or repeatedly making the same gloriously terrible life choices. The internet uses it both as self-deprecating confession and as awed commentary on others.

A razor-sharp piece of self-aware irony: young Chinese urbanites stay up until 3 a.m. Emerging around 2017, scrolling their phones, then slather on luxury serums costing hundreds of yuan to 'undo the damage.' The meme captures the absurd cycle of self-destruction paired with expensive self-repair — working late, partying, doom-scrolling, then buying La Mer to compensate. It's the skincare equivalent of smoking a cigarette while jogging.

'Hair Loss Anxiety' is the half-joking, half-despairing panic young Chinese professionals feel as they watch their hairlines retreat like a tide going out. Emerging around 2017, finding clumps of hair in the shower drain becomes a symbol of everything wrong with overwork culture. Memes, product ads, and office humor all feed into this shared dread — turning baldness into a dark badge of honor among the exhausted and the overworked.

A beloved piece of Chinese internet self-deprecation where people joke that their grueling work schedules, impossible deadlines, or brutal study loads are literally making them go bald. Emerging around 2017, it's the Chinese equivalent of saying 'this job is killing me' — but funnier and follicle-focused. Workers, students, and programmers especially adopted it as a badge of exhausted honor, bonding over shared hair loss (real or imagined) caused by modern pressures.

This meme captures the very adult art of falling apart quietly. Emerging around 2017, unlike kids who cry openly, adults experience their breakdowns in stairwells, parked cars, or the three seconds before answering a work call. It's the silent implosion that happens when one too many things goes wrong — a bounced payment, a missed deadline, a rude text — and you still have to say 'I'm fine' right after. Equal parts relatable and quietly devastating.

Emerging around 2017, it's the cultural cousin of calling yourself 'quirky' or a 'sapiosexual,' used both sincerely by romantics seeking meaningful connection and ironically by those poking fun at pretentious self-branding. Think of it as China's answer to 'I'm not like other girls,' but with philosophical flair.

Originating from novelist Zhang Jiajia's 2017 novel, this phrase became the rallying cry for anyone who ever got passed over for a promotion — or a date — in favor of someone better-looking. It cheekily argues that beautiful faces are mass-produced, but a genuinely interesting personality is a one-in-ten-thousand find. Used both sincerely (to compliment a quirky friend) and ironically (by people calling themselves 'rare souls' to cope with being average-looking).

Wolf Warrior 2 was China's blockbuster action film that shattered box office records in 2017, turning its one-liner 'Anyone who offends China, no matter how remote, will be punished' into a rallying cry. Online, it became shorthand for over-the-top nationalistic bravado. The term spawned 'Wolf Warrior diplomacy,' mocking aggressive chest-thumping rhetoric — both from officials and everyday internet warriors who fancy themselves patriotic heroes.

Picture a coworker getting a promotion for no apparent reason, or your boss sending a cryptic 2 a.m. Emerging around 2017, voice message — and you just sit there, blinking. That's this meme. It captures the very relatable impulse to swallow your confusion whole rather than risk asking a question and making things worse. Equal parts resignation and dark humor, it's the digital shrug of a generation that has learned some answers aren't worth the trouble of seeking.

'咱也不知道' literally means 'I don't know either' — but with heavy comic energy. Emerging around 2017, it's the verbal equivalent of a shrug emoji wrapped in plausible deniability. Chinese netizens use it to dodge awkward questions, mock confusing situations, or play innocent when they absolutely do know what's going on. Think of it as the cooler, more self-aware cousin of 'don't look at me.' It spread widely as a reaction phrase on Weibo and became a staple caption for bewildered-face memes.

"好嗨哟" (So Excited / So Hyped) exploded onto Chinese social media in late 2018 through a Douyin video that was impossible to ignore. In the clip, a middle-aged woman with an infectious grin yells '好嗨哟!"感觉人生已经到达了高潮"!' (So hyped! I feel like life has reached its climax!) while bouncing with uncontainable joy. The speaker was a rural woman from Guizhou, and her unfiltered, slightly exaggerated delivery — combined with the humorous gap between her ordinary appearance and her ecstatic declaration — made the video compulsively shareable. Bilibili users created countless remixes, adding "好嗨哟" to music tracks, movie scenes, and gaming montages. The phrase became the go-to expression for any moment of peak excitement, from acing an exam to finding a great parking spot. Its success reflected the democratizing power of Douyin: a random rural woman's moment of joy could become a national catchphrase overnight, bypassing traditional media gatekeepers entirely.

Imagine someone so done with life that every sentence ends in multiple exclamation marks and reads like they're screaming into a pillow. Emerging around 2017, that's 咆哮体 — a venting writing style where frustration, exhaustion, and absurdity are cranked to eleven. Think of it as the textual equivalent of flipping a table, beloved by overworked office drones, stressed students, and anyone whose day has gone spectacularly sideways.

In 2017 Chinese internet slang, 'battle' (pronounced roughly 'bei-ao-er') means to show off, flex, or flaunt your superior life circumstances — often in a humble-braggy way. It's the verbal eye-roll you give when someone casually mentions their Maldives vacation while complaining about sunburn. The word straddles genuine envy and playful mockery, letting speakers call out (or admit to) peacocking without being fully serious about it.

Borrowed straight from hip-hop English, 'diss' exploded in Chinese internet slang around 2017 when rap competition shows like 'The Rap of China' went viral. It means to publicly mock, criticize, or throw shade at someone — usually with style and swagger. Unlike a plain insult, a proper diss has flair. Chinese netizens embraced it as a cooler, more direct way to call someone out, blending imported hip-hop attitude with the very online habit of very public callouts.

Think of it as China's answer to 'American Idol' but for rap — except it accidentally made hip-hop cool in a country where it was previously considered niche. The show launched in 2017 on iQiyi and became a cultural earthquake, turning underground rappers into mainstream stars overnight. Phrases from the show ('你有freestyle吗？' — 'Do you have freestyle?') became instant memes, and the judges' outrageous fashion choices kept social media buzzing for months.

Born from the 2017 Chinese rap competition show 'The Rap of China,' where pop star Kris Wu repeatedly asked contestants 'Do you have any freestyle?' in hilariously deadpan fashion. The phrase exploded into everyday speech almost overnight, used to mock or challenge anyone who claims a skill they can't back up on the spot. It's the Chinese equivalent of calling someone's bluff — equal parts hype, humor, and gentle roasting.

In 2017, Chinese rapper and pop idol Kris Wu became the unlikely godfather of a meme when he repeatedly asked contestants on a hip-hop reality show 'Do you have freestyle?' — with such intense, almost philosophical gravity that the internet lost it. The phrase exploded beyond music to mean anything improvised, spontaneous, or done on the fly. If your plan falls apart and you wing it anyway, that's freestyle. It captured a generation's love of hip-hop cool mixed with a healthy dose of irony.

Think of "硬核" as the Chinese internet's all-purpose stamp of approval for anything impressively no-nonsense and badass. Emerging around 2017, originally borrowed from 'hardcore' music/gaming culture, it evolved to describe any person, skill, or solution that's brutally effective, technically demanding, or refreshingly uncompromising. If grandma patches her own roof at 80, that's 硬核. If an engineer codes a workaround in hex, that's 硬核. Equal parts respect and awe, with a dash of 'I could never.'

Imagine your partner asks if their haircut looks good and you, sensing mortal danger, instantly reply 'You look amazing!' before your brain even finishes loading. Emerging around 2017, that lightning-fast, self-preserving pivot away from trouble is what '求生欲很强' captures. It describes the almost comedic instinct to say exactly the right (usually flattering) thing to defuse a tense moment, especially in romantic relationships. Think of it as emotional aikido — dodging conflict with charm and flattery before disaster strikes.

"Survival instinct" refers to the almost comedic self-preservation reflex people display when navigating romantic relationships — particularly when a partner asks a loaded question like "Do I look fat?" or "Who's prettier, me or her?" The "correct" answer is always obvious, and fumbling it means disaster. Emerging around 2017, the meme celebrates the art of saying exactly the right thing to avoid a fight, turning romantic diplomacy into a survival skill. Think of it as emotional agility wrapped in humor.

A riff on the beloved Taiwanese concept of 'xiǎo què xìng' (small but certain happiness), '小确丧' flips the script: it's the tiny, undeniable moments of low-grade misery that punctuate everyday life. Emerging around 2017, think: your delivery arrives exactly when you step into the shower, or you buy an umbrella the moment the rain stops. It's not tragedy — it's the universe trolling you on a budget. Young Chinese internet users embraced it as a wry, relatable badge of millennial ennui.

Imagine if nihilism became a personality and got its own emoji pack — that's 丧文化. Emerging around 2017, chinese millennials, crushed under the weight of housing prices, brutal work hours, and sky-high expectations, responded with cheerful despair: memes of Pepe-like sad frogs, slogans like 'trying is meaningless,' and a collective shrug at ambition. It's less clinical depression, more an ironic coping mechanism — saying 'I give up' loudly enough that it becomes funny.

Imagine if giving up were an aesthetic. Emerging around 2017, that's 丧 culture — a meme-fueled celebration of low ambition, existential fatigue, and gleeful self-defeat. Young Chinese netizens embraced the 'slump' as a badge of honor: why hustle when you can shuffle around in slippers posting about how meaningless everything is? It's less clinical depression, more dramatic eye-roll at adulthood. Think Pepe the Frog wearing a business suit and crying into instant noodles.

Literally 'adding scenes,' this term calls out someone who dramatically overperforms when nobody asked them to. Emerging around 2017, think of the coworker who turns a simple group email into a TED talk, or the friend who makes your birthday dinner somehow about themselves. Originally rooted in film slang where actors would improvise extra scenes for more screen time, it jumped to everyday life to skewer anyone with an inflated sense of their own importance in any given moment.

A "戏精" is someone who treats everyday life like a prime-time soap opera — crying at minor inconveniences, turning a missed bus into a Shakespearean tragedy, and somehow always being the main character. Emerging around 2017, the term blends 戏 (drama/performance) with 精 (spirit/essence), implying the person is basically distilled theatrical energy in human form. It can be affectionate ribbing among friends or a sharper jab at chronic attention-seekers, depending on the tone.

Wellness Punk describes the gloriously contradictory lifestyle of young Chinese people who stay up until 3am gaming or drinking, then offset the damage with wolfberries in their water bottle or a $15 health tonic. Emerging around 2017, it's self-aware irony: they know they're destroying themselves, so they perform wellness rituals as a symbolic protest against their own bad habits. Think 'I vaped but I'm also taking a probiotic, so we're even.'

The image of a middle-aged man steeping wolfberries (goji berries) in a thermos flask became the definitive symbol of China's 'middle-age crisis' meme wave. Emerging around 2017, it captures the moment you stop partying and start worrying about your kidneys. Young and not-so-young Chinese use it to mock themselves for adopting the health-obsessed, low-key lifestyle of their parents' generation — trading nightclubs for herbal tea and ambition for survival.

Once a rock star clutching a mic, now he's clutching a thermos full of wolfberries. Emerging around 2017, the '保温杯' meme exploded when a photo of aged rock legend Wang Feng carrying an insulated flask went viral, becoming the ultimate symbol of reluctant middle age. If you've swapped energy drinks for herbal tea and your wild nights end at 10pm, congratulations — you've graduated to thermos life. It's equal parts resignation, humor, and a very relatable sigh.

Picture a middle-aged Chinese man with an unwashed ponytail, a Buddha-belly peeking out under a linen shirt, spouting unsolicited life wisdom while vaping on a hiking trail. Emerging around 2017, that's 'greasy.' Coined after writer Feng Tang's viral essay on how men age badly, the term skewered a certain self-satisfied, unkempt, pseudo-philosophical type. It quickly evolved into a broader insult for anyone — regardless of age or gender — who oozes smug, slimy, try-hard energy.

Think of it as the verbal equivalent of a smug little shrug after pulling a harmless prank. Emerging around 2017, the phrase — literally 'being a little naughty feels great' — became the go-to caption whenever someone did something mildly cheeky, rule-bending, or just delightfully petty. It's the meme equivalent of saying 'I regret nothing' while clearly regretting nothing. Popularized by a TV host's candid off-script moment, it resonated because it perfectly bottled that guilty-pleasure satisfaction of stepping just barely out of line.

Picture a cartoon mantis shrimp confidently declaring 'Let's go!' while riding on a hapless human like a horse — that's the vibe. This absurdist meme exploded across Chinese social media in 2017, perfectly capturing the millennial urge to drop everything and escape life's pressures with style and zero explanation. It's equal parts 'I quit' and 'see ya,' delivered by a crustacean with absolutely no time for your nonsense.

This phrase — literally 'Doesn't your conscience hurt?' — is the Chinese internet's all-purpose guilt trip, deployed with equal parts sarcasm and theatrical indignation. Emerging around 2017, originally used to call out genuinely shameless behavior, it quickly became a comedic tool: fans scolding celebrities for not updating, employees side-eyeing bossy bosses, or friends roasting each other for splitting the bill unequally. Think of it as the Mandarin cousin of 'How dare you,' but with more flair and far less sincerity.

A phrase popularized by comedian/writer Li Dan (李诞) from the TV show 'Rock & Roll'. Emerging around 2017, used to express nihilistic exhaustion with life — but crucially, almost always ironically. When your coffee spills: "人间不值得". When your phone dies at 1%: "人间不值得". The genuine despair and the trivial annoyance share the same expression, creating a gallows humor that became Generation Z's anthem.

To directly confront, clap back at, or verbally attack someone head-on. Emerging around 2017, stronger than criticism, more direct than passive aggression — 怼 is an open verbal collision. '我要怼他' means 'I'm going to go right at them.' Essential for understanding Chinese social media arguments, celebrity feuds, and political commentary. Everyone 怼s everyone on Chinese internet.

A lifestyle philosophy borrowed from Buddhist detachment — approaching everything with calm indifference. Emerging around 2017, career, relationships, possessions — none of it matters enough to stress over. "佛系生活" means choosing peace over competition, contentment over ambition. Emerged as a response to China's exhausting 996 work culture and "内卷" competition. The three sacred phrases of "佛系" living: "都行" (anything is fine), "随便" (whatever), "无所谓" (doesn't matter). Adopted as a generational aesthetic of calm resistance, "佛系" gave young people permission to stop pretending ambition was the only path.

Young people who adopt Buddhist-inspired indifference toward life's competitive pressures. Emerging around 2017, their mantra: '都行，"随便"，"无所谓"' (anything goes, whatever, doesn't matter). "佛系青年" don't fight for promotions, don't stress about relationships, don't compete for status. The concept went viral when a Japanese magazine article about 'Buddhist men' resonated deeply with exhausted Chinese millennials. Their defining trait isn't laziness but detachment — they work, they function, but they refuse to invest emotionally in outcomes. The Buddhist framing recast what could be seen as failure as wisdom, giving exhausted young people a dignified framework for opting out.

Gaming term for being revived with full health points. Emerging around 2017, in everyday Chinese internet usage, it means fully recharged, completely recovered, back at 100%. After a good night's sleep: "满血复活". After a vacation: "满血复活". After eating a great meal when hungry: "满血复活". The gaming metaphor turns recovery into a status update — from depleted to maximum capacity.

To set the rhythm — to deliberately steer public opinion, manipulate online emotions, or frame a narrative in a particular direction. Emerging around 2017, a paid poster who floods comment sections with pro-government content is "带节奏". A celebrity PR team that redirects a scandal conversation is "带节奏". But so is a journalist whose framing guides readers to a conclusion. The term acknowledges that online discourse is rarely organic — someone is usually conducting the orchestra.

A metaphor for retail investors who are easily exploited by large traders. Emerging around 2017, the image is of leeks being harvested—retail investors are repeatedly 'cut' by institutional players in stocks and crypto.

我可能XX了假XX (I Might Have X'd a Fake X) was the self-deprecation template of 2017. Take any disappointment, re-frame it as having received a counterfeit version of reality. Failed the exam? 'I might have studied a fake textbook.' Relationship falling apart? 'I might be dating a fake girlfriend.' Everything going wrong? 'I might be living a fake life.' The meme's genius was its inversion of blame: if things aren't working, it's not your fault, you just got the counterfeit version of existence. It offered a face-saving way to acknowledge defeat through absurdist humor.