My TikTok feed was meant to be a safe space, a curated digital charcuterie board of niche content that feeds my soul. We’ve got interspecies animal friendships, northern English hairdressers doing proper bouncy blow-drys and Gen Z historians playing Snog, Marry, Avoid with 1916 Proclamation signatories. If I indeed have a foreign spy in charge of my algorithm to keep me on the app, they’re doing a fantastic job.
At least, until someone went on a smoke break and let “SkinnyTok” slip into my doomscrolling. Or maybe I had done it to myself. I’ve been seeing a personal trainer to learn how to lift weights with a broken wrist. I’d been looking up rehabilitation exercises and…