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Remember digital cameras!? Seems like a faint memory, but nothing beat uploading a cringey set of photos to your Facebook album after a fun night out. Shockingly, these cameras are having a major comeback and it’s all thanks to TikTok. Content creator, Alix Earle, has had the Canon PowerShot G7 X Mark II in her Amazon storefront for months and fans and followers alike have sold it out on more than one occasion.

@alixearle

Posted on the insta go follow

♬ Toxic (Y2K & Alexander Lewis Remix) – Britney Spears

Thanks to social media and wanting to capture film-like Instagram pics, digital cameras are back in full force. Its compact size and lightweight body make it easy to take with you on the go, whether you’re traveling abroad or simply exploring your city.

One of the standout features of the camera is its 20.1-megapixel CMOS sensor. It produces crisp and clear images with stunning detail, even in low-light situations. Additionally, the camera has a fast and accurate autofocus system, which makes it easy to capture even the most fleeting moments.

When it comes to video, the Canon PowerShot G7 X Mark II is a solid choice. It can shoot 1080p full HD video at 60 frames per second, which is great for capturing action-packed footage. The camera also has a range of video features, including time-lapse and slow-motion, which adds to its versatility.

Another great feature is its built-in Wi-Fi and NFC capabilities. This makes it easy to share your photos and videos with friends and family or upload them directly to social media. You can also control the camera remotely using Canon’s Camera Connect app, which is available for both iOS and Android devices.

Of course, like any camera, the Canon PowerShot G7 X Mark II has a few downsides. For example, some users have reported that the camera’s battery life is relatively short, which can be frustrating if you’re planning to use it for an extended period. Additionally, the camera’s zoom range is somewhat limited, so you may need to get closer to your subject to get the shot you want.

Overall, the Canon PowerShot G7 X Mark II is a great choice for anyone looking for a high-quality digital camera that’s both compact and functional. Its impressive sensor and fast autofocus make it a great option for everyday photography, while its video features and built-in Wi-Fi make it a versatile choice for videographers and aspiring influencers. So if you’re in the market for a new camera, be sure to check this one out.

Shop It: Canon PowerShot G7 X Mark II, $654,95, Amazon

I was sitting at my college town’s Italian restaurant with some friends when a notification popped up on all of their phones. “Time to BeReal,” it said, as it prompted them to take a photo of their present state to post on the app. At first, I was confused. Why are they obeying some app when it asks them to abandon their good bite of chicken parmesan to photograph their lives within the next two minutes? Then, my friends broke it down for me: “BeReal is the new, trending social media app. People post their honest selves, and it’s so authentic!” A social media app? Authentic? You’ve got to be kidding me. 

The app — founded in 2020 by Alexis Barreyat, a French entrepreneur— promises to show “your friends for real”. After sending users a notification to capture a photo within two minutes, it uses a special camera feature to take frontal and selfie photos at the same time. Once the photo posts, app users or chosen friends can comment, chat, and react with a RealMoji. After those two minutes, the users move on with their lives until a random time the next day when the notification appears again.

Through its promise of being the “simplest photo-sharing app” and showing “life without filters”, BeReal has risen to 10th on the charts for social networking apps and has a 4.9 rating. App Store reviewers are raving about it, with one noting that “THIS APP BREAKS BARRIERS!”  It’s clearly doing something right. 

There’s a catch, though. BeReal claims to be “not another social network”. But it really is just another social network. BeReal might not have filters or FaceTune, but it’s still phony.  Users can retake their BeReal post as many times within the two minutes, allowing them to pose or fix up their appearance. I’ve often heard my friends say “Get in my BeReal photo! I want to look like I’m doing something interesting.” It doesn’t brand it on the surface, but the app also lets its users choose anytime during the day to start their two minutes. Are users really being real if they can wait until the most photogenic, appealing part of their day to take a photo? Letting users choose the time they want to take the photo is nothing but fake. 

As a society, we’re so far deep down the toxic rabbit hole of social media that we don’t know how to be real. For so many people, especially young girls, we are wired to curate our images on social media. We are so used to editing and exaggerating to promote the best version of our lives on Instagram, Snapchat, and every other platform. One social media app isn’t going to change that.

 If we are trying to be real, then why even turn to a social media app? Why not focus on real relationships instead of those on your phone? If you are truly living in the moment and being authentic, then there is no need to prove it to others. Social media is not, and will never be, the space for realness. Put your effort into real life, not something trying to emulate it.

“That Girl”: she’s the 6am-waking, 10,000-step-walking, green-juice-drinking embodiment of wellness taking over TikTok. If you haven’t met her on your For You Page yet, you likely soon will. Despite many people’s efforts to be her, no one specific person is “That Girl”. Rather, she is an aesthetic composed of face masks, lemon water, journaling, Olaplex, and Aritzia. Once you remove the mask of “That Girl’s” perfect minimalistic and clean lifestyle, though, you can see her toxic positivity and homogenous view of wellness.

Starting last summer, “That Girl” made its way to TikTok feeds in small numbers. It took off as a trend last fall and had a sharp rise in popularity in late December as people were setting their New Year’s goals and resolutions. The TikTok hashtag #ThatGirl currently has over 2 billion views. Most of the trending videos are along the lines of “my morning routine as ‘That Girl’”, or “this is your sign to become ‘That Girl’”. Plenty of influencers are also posting shopping round-ups about what to buy to achieve this lifestyle including self-help books, yoga mats, or monochromatic workout sets. After diving down the trend’s hashtag, I noticed that one thing almost always present with “That Girl” content is some type of promise to “be the best version of yourself” if you adopt this lifestyle. 

If you are anything like me, learning about this trend—specifically, its “live your best life” messaging—set off blaring alarms in your brain. It’s reminiscent of the themes from dietitians and fitness influencers promising fulfilled potential if you adopt certain habits. The only difference is now this toxicity has just been repackaged as not just a diet, but a full lifestyle. Seriously? Are we really going to believe that someone on TikTok knows what’s going to changes our lives? I thought we moved past this. 

I’ll admit, some of the ideas are there. Don’t you think I want to drink more water, eat more vegetables, and get more than 5 hours of sleep every night? Don’t you think I want to put myself first and be more mindful? I sure do. But by wrapping these messages in the unrealistic, uniform, expensive, aesthetic bow that is “That Girl”, they appear out of reach and their significance is lost. 

There is one common denominator with “That Girl”: she is almost always skinny, she is almost always wealthy, and she is almost always white. She has more time and resources than the average person, giving her the ability to live this idealized lifestyle and make it look so easy. 

Even though being “That Girl” is inaccessible for most, it’s an attractive lifestyle. Sure, I would love to know what my life would be like if I spent every hour of my day working out, reading self-help books, and making intricate smoothie bowls, but for myself and most others, that’s not realistic. This trend is so idealized, though, that there is a sense of shame or disappointment in every normal person that can’t live “That Girl’s” perfect life. I almost feel like she’s staring through the screen as I scroll TikTok in bed at 1am and screaming “Oh, you can’t be me? Well, then you’re not the best version of yourself.”

It might seem like “That Girl” has it all: she has a fridge full of colorful foods, a clean room, clear skin, a wardrobe on-trend, and a healthy, relaxed mind. But she’s missing something. She’s missing balance. Does “That Girl” eat four slices of pizza with her friends after a night out? Does “That Girl” body a Chipotle bowl while lying on the couch in sweats watching Sex and the City? Does “That Girl” even cry? Judging from her constantly smiling videos, no she does not, and boy is she missing out.

So just remember that even though “That Girl” might wake up at 7am, don’t be afraid to sleep until noon. Even though “That Girl” works out daily, take a rest day. Even though “That Girl” wears minimalistic color-coordinated sets, wear your old high school sweatshirt and the same pair of sweatpants you wore two days ago. 

If you have become “That Girl” then… congrats I guess? But for every other normal person on the planet, just remember that being productive and being your best self looks different for everyone. As aesthetically tempting as it may be, stop focusing on skinny, wealthy, white women’s highlight reels, and start living the life that works for you. 

Image: Julia Volk /Stocksy.com

Well, internet. Congratulations. You’ve done it again. You’ve taken something that we all loved and you’ve crushed it in your cold, clammy hands. No, I’m not referring to Y2k fashion or even just like, the general concept of privacy: I am talking about “no-bones day.” 

For those of you who may be living under a rock (or at the very least have a TikTok algorithm niche enough to shelter you from the zeitgeist), a “no-bones” day is when a 13-year-old pug named Noodle is awoken by his owner, Jonathan Graziano, and shows no signs of having a single bone in his body. Graziano picks Noodle up and sees if he can stand on his own—if he can’t, it’s a “no-bones” day; if he stands, it’s a bones day. Noodle’s loyal followers have started looking to the state of the pug’s bones as a report for how their day will go, and obviously, a bones day is the ideal outcome. A no-bones day, however, is rough news. In an interview with The Washington Post, Graziano explained, “A no-bones day is not a bad day. It’s not that you can’t accomplish things, but you need to make sure to take care of yourself. That’s what Noodle does.” 

Now, before you come for me (I’m assuming Noodle stans are as deservedly as ferocious as even Swifties or Directioners), I would just like to note that I’m not here to bash Noodle. I’m simply pointing out that our collective reaction to the concept of no-bones day is exactly why we can’t have nice things. I’ve already heard “must be a no-bones day” mustered up as an excuse for technical difficulty on a Zoom call, and though I welcome any break from “Is Mercury in retrograde or something?” comments, I do worry for Noodle. I don’t want us to get sick of him, and he’s already flying dangerously close to the sun. Just a few days ago, John Bel Edwards, the Governor of Louisiana, co-opted “bones day” in an attempt to inspire residents to get vaccinated. Do you know what comes after that? If your answer was Fashion Nova referencing Noodle the pug in a promotional email subject line, you were correct. 

A message for Louisiana on a Bones Day 🦴 #lagovhttps://t.co/1J0Bld7oJm pic.twitter.com/omDkjUODd3

— John Bel Edwards (@LouisianaGov) October 20, 2021

Unfortunately, the internet is full of people who spend most of their time working insufferable jobs, and love nothing more than a silly, snappy little quote to sum up how miserable they feel throughout the work week. Once they get their hands on a new one to throw around, it’s game over. It will be part of the vernacular until the day robots take over, rendering a human workforce obsolete. And it’s not just that people will be saying “sorry, I can’t, it’s a no-bones day!” until the end of time, it’s that we’re about to have people try to sell us all things that rip the concept off in any way imaginable. I’m sure as you’re reading this, some Etsy shop owner is already breaking their back trying to hand letter mugs with the phrase “It’s a no-bones day. I need coffee.” Femfetti already has a crew neck. Eventually, Rae Dunn will catch wind of it, and the shelves of every HomeGoods across the nation will be full of little desktop signs that allow you to indicate if it’s a bones day or not. I wouldn’t even be surprised if Noodle the pug graces our screens in at least one TV advertisement come Super Bowl Sunday. He just has that relatable, commercial quality that makes ad executives go absolutely nuts, like Mindy Kaling, Ryan Reynolds, and the guys from Queer Eye. 

If you think I’m being dramatic, just think about how you felt the first time you saw a tweet noting that “the first five days after the weekend are always the hardest.” It was pretty funny, right? And now, it’s just an eyeroll-inducing phrase that’s plastered all over candles, notebooks, and T-shirts. The human brain is clearly incapable of seeing something humorous, thinking “haha, nice,” and moving on. 

In the spirit of saving the sanctity of Noodle, I vote we follow Twitter legend Dionne Warwick’s lead and “let the dog rest,” as she requested in an October 20 tweet. He deserves better than the overworked “HUMP DAYYY” Geico commercials treatment. Please, continue to excitedly search for Noodle’s bones report each morning, if it truly brings you joy. But please stop dragging this elderly dog into your attempt to be quirky while joking about your own unproductivity! Here are a few phrases that have already been beaten to death that you can use whenever you’d like.  

• The Mondayest Monday that ever Mondayed.
• “What a week, huh?” “Lemon, it’s Wednesday.” 
• No talkie before coffee. 
• If Monday had a face, I would punch it. 
• I thought about it, and I just do not think that being an adult is going to work out for me.
• Any variation on “adulting is hard!” 
• Is it wine o’clock yet?
• Fresh out of fucks to give. 
• Some basic joke about needing to take your bra off at the end of a long day. 

Images: @jongraz / TikTok; LouisianaGov / Twitter

As demonstrated by the most recent skinny jeans and side parts scandal that rocked millennials everywhere, tying ourselves to shared generational labels is a pillar of meme culture — or broadly, today’s culture. Generational stereotypes have fueled the formation of countless online communities, but they’ve also caused hot-blooded arguments across age lines. After Baby Boomers criticized Millennials for not buying houses, it sparked economic discourse around responsibility and capitalism, and the “OK Boomer” meme popularized during the 2020 election signified Gen Z refusing to feign respect for racist and misogynistic elders. To say the least, there is weight and substance behind these memed stereotypes.

As digital natives in a digital world, Gen Z’s cultural influence is undeniable, but the one stereotype that overpowers the rest is that we are “diverse.” A quick Google search will show you that Gen Z is labeled as the “most diverse generation in history” and that we “demand diversity in the workplace.” However, of the top 100 creators on the social media platform most commonly associated with Gen Z, TikTok, the vast majority are white or white-passing. Charli D’Amelio and Addison Rae, the golden girls of Gen Z, are thin, upper-middle-class white women. Simply put, it ain’t adding up: if we’re so diverse, why aren’t the people we idolize?

When Addison Rae appeared on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon in March to perform multiple dances originally created by Black TikTokers, it sparked a conversation about white mediocrity. D’Amelio and Rae are certainly not as talented as Keara Wilson, who created the “Savage” dance that propelled Addison Rae to superstardom, or Jalaiah Harmon, the originator of the “Renegade” dance that did the same for Charli. But comparing talent isn’t the problem: these women took Black choreography and used it for their own benefit, and were rewarded. Whether it’s subconscious or not, the fame that we’ve given them is because they fit the mold of who women are supposed to want to be.

In the same way that millennials adore celebrities like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian, the supposedly diverse and inclusive Gen Z continues the cycle of rewarding attractive, rich, white women for existing. While society’s cultural icons have evolved from supermodels (1990s) to celebrities (2000s) to reality stars (2010s), the skin color and proximity to wealth of our superstars has remained consistent. Despite their wealthy, white California childhood, the Kardashians adopted Black culture to differentiate themselves from the thin blonde stars popular in the 2000s. They injected their butts and lips to recreate features found naturally on Black women, appropriated Black hairstyles, almost exclusively dated Black men, and recreated age-old Black and Latina fashion trends. 

This look was, yes, a departure from parallel generational icons Paris Hilton and the Olsen Twins, but it wasn’t new. Black women, who grew up wearing wigs and had naturally big lips, certainly aren’t growing multimillion-follower fan bases or offered the cover of Vogue, but rather are discriminated against for living out their own culture while white women run through their trends faster than Fashion Nova can produce a rip-off. 

The Kardashians shared everything from their petty fights to brutal divorces, parental blowups, and personal anxieties on national television. But the “relatability” or “reality” they may have shown on TV does not a billion-dollar empire make: they wouldn’t have had the lip kits, curvy shapewear, or half as much media coverage without appropriation.

TikTok was supposed to democratize the social media industry with an algorithm that let anyone get famous — or at least “TikTok famous.” Instead, we’ve repeated the same process of propping up white women who manipulate Black culture to appeal to the masses, yet remain safe from systemic racism in their peach skin. As the biggest Gen Z idols in the world, Addison Rae and Charli D’Amelio pocket millions while the Black girls who created the dances, and the music they dance to, remain nameless or endure hate at an alarmingly higher rate. Black creators’ followings remain significantly lower, and their sponsorship deals even sparser. Meanwhile, these white TikTok stars are hanging out with the Kardashians, with nary a Black woman in sight.

Would we still be idolizing these people, however, if corporations like NBC (the network that airs Jimmy Fallon’s show) and TikTok itself weren’t inching us in that direction? In March 2020, an internal memo was leaked revealing that TikTok’s algorithm doesn’t push darker, disabled, or “ugly” videos, making it significantly harder to “blow up” as a Black creator even if you have better content. Most of the companies giving out these sponsorship deals are run by majority-white Millennials or Baby Boomers who are inclined to stick with the already-advantaged white women that look like them or their children. 

We won’t reach equality for these influencers until the most prominent corporations and influencers make a conscious effort to give Black creators the exposure their white counterparts get. Companies must do this through providing equally lucrative sponsorship opportunities, and the biggest celebrities must take responsibility for benefitting from the systems that allowed them to grow by offering slices of their fame to prop the culture originators up. 

Gen Z definitely cares about diversity, but the systems in place created by previous generations don’t allow that to be reflected in our culture idols. If algorithms don’t allow Black creators to make it on their own, it’s up to influencers and social media users to make conscious choices to highlight and reward that talent, or we’ll be watching history repeat itself for the next generation, too.

Image: Todd Williamson / E! Entertainment

If you spend a lot of time on social media, you’ve probably noticed that in the last month, everyone has become obsessed with Clubhouse. Well, maybe not everyone, but you probably follow at least a few people who won’t shut up about the wonders of this incredible new app. It’s invite-only, audio-only, and for now, iPhone-only—and obviously, exclusivity automatically makes anything better. But what’s the deal with Clubhouse, really, and is it actually worth your attention? 

I first heard about Clubhouse back in September of 2020, but not because anyone I knew was actually using the platform. Instead, I learned of the fledgling app because of controversy surrounding a “room” where users were reportedly being freely anti-Semitic. Writing about the event, The Verge noted that the app offered the ability to report users for harassment, but lacked a robust moderation system required of a social network where people feel empowered to share harmful opinions.

Given that this was my first introduction to Clubhouse, I wasn’t terribly eager to secure myself an invite. I’m proud to have largely rooted out Trump supporters and conspiracy theorists from my social media feeds, and the last thing I need is to waste my time listening to internet randos having conversations that belong on Parler.

But fast-forward a few months to the beginning of 2021, and the conversation around Clubhouse had changed, at least from my vantage point. Suddenly, the up-and-coming app was a networking hotspot—the place to be for anyone who wanted to make connections and get ahead. Personally, I’ve always hated the idea of ~networking~, but I also hate being behind on social media trends, so when my coworker offered me an invite in late January, I accepted, and dipped my toes into the world of Clubhouse for the first time.

If you haven’t been properly briefed on how Clubhouse works, it’s sort of terrifying at first. The whole app is audio-based, and there’s nothing quite as unsettling as not being 100% sure that you’re on mute. When you first join, the app pings your contacts to join a designated welcoming room, and before I knew it, I was in a room with two of my colleagues, which I quickly exited because it stressed me out too much (it was 8am, and no one needs to hear my voice that early).

After the initial jitters wore off, I got the hang of it, and the app is pretty simple, really. You quickly learn that no one can hear you unless you ask to speak in a room. You follow your friends and people you find interesting, and rooms they join appear on your homescreen (cleverly called “the hallway”). You can dip in and out of rooms whenever you want, and even listen in the background as you do other things on your phone. In the few weeks since I really started using Clubhouse, I’ve even moderated in a few rooms, speaking about Bravo and pop culture, naturally. Overall, I feel like I’ve immersed myself in the Clubhouse experience, and I have some thoughts.

When Clubhouse is good, it can be really great. You never know who will pop up—from reality stars to A-list celebrities like Tiffany Haddish—and because the platform is so new, it lacks the PR-approved veneer that comes with more traditional interviews and appearances. There’s a tremendous range of content across rooms, from doctors talking about how vaccines work, to TV producers talking about how your favorite shows are made. You have to be in the right place at the right time, but if you get lucky, you might make a useful connection, or hear some tea on a new Bravo show, or get business advice that really helps you out.

But while I’ve enjoyed many different rooms on Clubhouse, and even met a few cool people (and by “met,” I mean we followed each other on Instagram), it’s really not as life-changing as the true devotees want you to believe. There’s no denying that some influential people are on Clubhouse, and the in-the-moment nature of the app can lead to some exciting conversations that you might not get elsewhere, but you have to sift through a lot of noise—literally—to find them. Clubhouse is fertile ground for social climbers and wannabe moguls, and for many of these people, you can hear the thirst through the phone when they’re brought on to speak. Pretty quickly, I’ve figured out whose rooms are worth joining, and I find myself ignoring 75% of the notifications I get from the app. Now that I think about it, I’m sure there’s a way to turn these notifications off, but god forbid I miss Jill Zarin spilling some dirt about something that happened behind the scenes on RHONY 10 years ago.

In my opinion, one of Clubhouse’s biggest pitfalls is its dedication to the audio-only concept. Rooms don’t have any kind of chat feature, which can make being an audience member kind of a boring experience, and from a moderating perspective, you get zero audience feedback. More importantly, it renders the app almost totally inaccessible to those who are deaf or hearing impaired. As closed captioning and other accessibility features have become more common across apps like Instagram and TikTok, Clubhouse feels like a step back in this department.

And a further complaint about the audio-only platform, which I’ve heard echoed in many conversations, is that Clubhouse has no direct message feature. In every other social media app, DMs are a key part of the user experience, but Clubhouse’s only comparable feature is private rooms. Still, I’m hard-pressed to think of a situation where I’d prefer talking to someone I just met rather than sending them a quick DM on Instagram. As a millennial who is pretty averse to phone calls, I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. 

In one room I entered, I heard a discussion about a phenomenon called the “Clubhouse high”—when users of the app become addicted to it, spending hours hopping between rooms, thrilled with the possibility of what they could learn from the next one they stumble upon. For me, this phase lasted approximately two days, before I realized that listening to people recite their career accomplishments before attempting to say something profound about building a brand wasn’t actually that interesting. These days, I’m content as a casual user of Clubhouse, and I don’t see myself getting addicted any time soon.

Images: rafapress / Shutterstock.com

Does anyone else feel like the last few weeks have been some of the bleakest so far? Nearly a year into the pandemic, the combination of terrible winter weather, vaccine frustration, and just general life stuff have created a perfect storm of bad vibes, and it seems like a lot of us have been feeling it. But you know who hasn’t let the less-than-ideal mood get in their way? The celebrities on TikTok. To them, February 2021 seems like any other month, and that means they’re still cranking out the content that just makes you go “…why?” From Gen-Z to Boomers, some of our favorite famous TikTokers have been doing their worst lately, and here’s your latest batch of cringe.

Heidi Montag

@heidimontagCan you pull down your mask if you see papperazzi? ##fyp ##foryoupage ##beverlyhills♬ original sound – heidimontag

Heidi, Heidi, Heidi… I’ve grown accustomed to Heidi’s weird TikToks around the house—the terrible lip-syncing and random product placement of Spencer’s crystals throughout the videos, but this is a new level of cringe for her. She and Spencer are walking down the street, and she asks if she can take her masks off for the paparazzi. Obviously, the answer is no, but seeing her get so excited to have her picture taken just makes me kind of sad. Idk, maybe I’m still in my feels about Framing Britney Spears, but I have a hard time not getting angry at the thought of invasive celeb photographers. Heidi’s also been ramping up her content about #filming, so it seems like the new season of The Hills should be coming soon.

Bryce Hall

@brycehallroots @joshrichards @imgriffinjohnson♬ original sound – Bryce Hall

If you’ve read my articles in the past, you’ll know that Bryce Hall is my least favorite of the Gen-Z hot guy cohort on TikTok. Aside from practicing terrible COVID behavior, he also just seems like a f*ckboy, and this video of him and two of his Sway House buddies shotgunning energy drinks isn’t doing anything to dispel that notion. At least they’re wearing shirts in this video, because I was actually starting to wonder if they owned any clothes other than t0o-tight sweatpants.

Dr. Phil

@drphilThis new grand baby better hurry up!

♬ Rugrats Theme (From “Rugrats”) – Just Kids

Dr. Phil has always been one of my least favorite people on TikTok, and this video of him looking longingly out the window as he waits for his grandchild to arrive is so staged it hurts. Why does this old man have a BIB on his shirt? And how much did he have to force his wife to play along for the video? Also, he clearly hasn’t been able to get his botox during the pandemic, because homeboy is looking way older than I remember. Anyway, his son Jordan McGraw had his baby with Morgan Stewart, a girl named Row Renggli, so hopefully his weird videos will be replaced with cute baby content soon.

James Charles

@jamescharlessurprise… 🤰🏻💕 what should I name her♬ Still Into You by Paramore – Ariam

Last week, James Charles pulled two different social media stunts in the time it takes me to get out of bed n the morning. On the same day he tried to trick us into thinking he was bald, he also posted… a fake pregnancy announcement? We all say that bizarre recreation of Beyoncé’s nude pregnancy photos on Instagram, but you may have missed this TikTok where he shows off his “transformation.” I still don’t understand why this was ever a thing, but I hope James got the attention he was craving.

Charli D’Amelio

@charlidameliolink to sign up for @step in my bio💗 ##steppartner♬ original sound – charli d’amelio

I’m all for TikTok creators like Charli hustling and making money from their platforms, but taking financial advice from someone who was born in 2004 just doesn’t sit right with me. She’s advertising for Step, a banking and debit card service aimed at teens, which is supposed to help them build credit and learn about money management. Sounds like a smart idea, but I feel like they should be aiming their marketing at parents of teens, not kids who are scrolling on TikTok. We’ve seen people like Billy McFarland and the Kardashians market some questionable cards before, so I’m not trusting any famous person when it comes to financial advice.

Images: Featureflash Photo Agency / Shutterstock.com; TikTok