2022 Chinese Internet Memes

Imagine forcing a serene smile while your inbox explodes and your boss texts at midnight — that's '情绪稳定' energy. Emerging around 2022, on the surface it means 'emotionally stable,' but Chinese netizens use it with heavy irony to describe the performative calm they maintain while quietly falling apart. It's the adult version of 'I'm fine' — everyone knows you're not fine, you know you're not fine, and somehow that shared understanding makes it darkly funny.

In July 2022, a viral video by creator"衣戈猜想" introduced the world to his 'Second Uncle' — a rural man who became disabled after a botched childhood injection, yet taught himself carpentry, built his own house, and lived with quiet resilience. The video exploded as an antidote to Chinese youth's 'internal friction' (内耗) culture, with millions sharing it as proof that one man's stoic endurance could 'heal your existential dread.' Cue the inevitable backlash questioning whether it glorified suffering.

Imagine you've been treading water for years, desperately swimming toward 'the shore' — a coveted government job, a grad school seat, or any stable career anchor. Emerging around 2022, '上岸难' (hard to reach shore) captures the exhausted, darkly humorous lament of Chinese young adults who keep failing these hyper-competitive exams. It's less a complaint and more a collective shrug: everyone's drowning, the shore keeps moving, and at least you can joke about it together.

Ever tiptoe into a party, grab a snack, and slip out before anyone spots you? Emerging around 2022, that's 偷感 — the art of moving through life like a stealthy background character. It describes the vibe of people who do things quietly, avoid drawing attention, and prefer to exist just under the social radar. Think: eating lunch alone by choice, muting yourself on a group call, or scrolling without ever liking a post. It's part anxiety, part introversion, part deliberate self-erasure — and Gen-Z has turned it into an identity.

Imagine taking something ordinary — a bedroom, an outfit, even your own life plan — and unleashing a chaotic, go-big-or-go-home renovation on it. Emerging around 2022, '爆改' literally means 'explosive transformation' and became a viral shorthand for drastic, often over-the-top makeovers. It exploded on platforms like Bilibili and Douyin as creators documented jaw-dropping before-and-after flips, and netizens quickly adopted it ironically to describe personal reinventions, budget DIY disasters, and the dream of radically overhauling a mediocre situation.

Literally 'the car flipped over,' 翻车 describes a spectacular, public failure — especially when someone was riding high and suddenly faceplants in front of an audience. Emerging around 2022, it can apply to a celebrity whose PR stunt backfires, a livestreamer who drops their phone mid-flex, or a friend who confidently orders in English and gets it completely wrong. The beauty is in the hubris-to-humiliation arc. Part mockery, part schadenfreude, part affectionate ribbing — often used by the person themselves with a self-deprecating shrug.

During Shanghai's COVID lockdown in spring 2022, fitness influencer Liu Genghong (Taiwanese pop star Will Liu) started live-streaming high-energy dance workouts on Douyin. Millions of mostly young women joined in daily, sweating along to 'Compendium of Materia Medica' remixes in their living rooms. A 'Liu Genghong Girl' is someone who went from couch potato to dedicated home-workout devotee almost overnight — equal parts fitness trend, parasocial fandom, and lockdown coping mechanism.

A 'Price Assassin' is a product — usually an ice cream bar or snack lurking among cheap options in a convenience store freezer — whose price tag ambushes you like a blade in the back. You reach for what looks like a harmless treat, get to the register, and discover it costs as much as a full meal. The term captured a very relatable 2022 experience of budget-conscious young Chinese consumers feeling quietly stabbed by premium branding they didn't sign up for.

A 'man-baby boss' is a manager or business owner who never emotionally grew up — throwing tantrums when things don't go their way, demanding constant validation from employees, and expecting the entire office to tiptoe around their fragile feelings. Emerging around 2022, think less 'corporate leader,' more 'toddler with a company WeChat account.' The term became viral shorthand for exhausted workers venting about bosses who lack emotional regulation yet somehow hold power over people's livelihoods.

Literally 'match the number and take the seat' — a phrase originally meaning to find your assigned seat, repurposed as internet slang for that prickling moment when you read a critique clearly aimed at no one in particular... Emerging around 2022, and realize it's absolutely about you. Used both self-deprecatingly ('yep, that's me') and accusatorially ('you know who you are'). It's the Chinese equivalent of typing 'this tweet was written about me' while dying inside.

Originally a fan boast that Genshin Impact represents the ceiling — the absolute best — of gacha mobile games, the phrase was gleefully weaponized into ironic self-deprecation. Emerging around 2022, chinese internet users started applying it to anything mediocre: 'If this is the ceiling, the floor must be underground.' It became a versatile tool for roasting games, workplaces, or life situations by pretending to praise them while actually implying nothing better exists — and that's a problem, not a flex.

A deceptively simple tile-matching mobile game that went explosively viral in 2022 for being nearly impossible to beat. The first level was child's play; the second level was sadistically hard — designed to be virtually unbeatable without watching ads or sharing the game. The rage-inducing difficulty combined with peer pressure to 'complete the daily challenge' created a mass social phenomenon.

Chinese-American freestyle skier who chose to represent China at the 2022 Beijing Winter Olympics, winning two gold medals. Her decision to compete for China despite being American sparked enormous debate about national identity, dual citizenship, and what it means to be Chinese. She became simultaneously a Chinese national hero and a symbol of the complexities of diaspora identity.

In December 2022, China abruptly abandoned its strict zero-COVID policy, and '放开了' (it's open/they've released it) became the three characters that defined the moment. The phrase carried enormous emotional weight — three years of lockdowns, testing, and restrictions suddenly over. Used to express relief, fear, excitement, and confusion all at once. Everyone got COVID within weeks.

Internet slang for 'it's over' or 'done for.' 寄 (to mail/send) became a homophone-adjacent substitute for "完了" (finished) — partly because 寄 sounds vaguely like the English 'GG' and partly through gaming culture. Emerging around 2022, when you fail an exam, when a plan collapses, when your team is losing badly: "寄了". It carries a tone of resigned acceptance — not panic, just the flat acknowledgment that this particular thing has ended badly.

From gaming culture (particularly CS:GO, where a five-player team's unpredictable extra is the 'sixth man'). Emerging around 2022, a "老六" is the player who doesn't play by the rules — camping in corners, ambushing from behind, winning through sneaky unconventional tactics rather than direct skill. Off the gaming context, calling someone "老六" means they're slyly underhanded, the person who does something unexpected and slightly devious. It can be an insult or grudging admiration.

A self-deprecating writing style where the speaker refers to themselves as "鼠鼠" (a little rat/mouse), narrating their life as that of a lowly creature living in a gutter. Emerging around 2022, 'rat rat me is just a sewer mouse, doesn't deserve good things' — the tone is extreme, almost theatrically abject self-pity. "鼠鼠文学" takes the existing culture of online self-deprecation to its bleakest, most darkly comic extreme, with the speaker positioned beneath even ordinary human dignity.

From a children's gratitude song — 'listen to me say thank you, thanks for being in my life.' The song went viral in 2022 not for being good, but for being awkwardly overused: performed by children at inappropriate occasions, used in cringe-inducing ways to thank healthcare workers and others. It became an ironic meme — saying '听我说谢谢你' now usually signals sarcastic, hollow, or performatively awkward gratitude rather than sincere thanks.

你是我的神 (You Are My God) is the sound of admiration becoming so intense it becomes comedy. In a 2022 variety show, veteran actress Hai Qing (海清) spontaneously knelt before young actor Ou Hao (欧豪), clasped her hands in prayer, and declared with trembling sincerity: '你是我的神!' The sheer disproportion between the gesture (religious worship) and context (reality TV) created an instant classic. The clip went viral, and netizens began deploying the phrase for any situation requiring absurdly excessive praise: a friend who brought coffee is your god, a coworker who fixed the printer is your god. The phrase's power comes from its complete ambiguity — impossible to tell if sincere or sarcastic.