Do you feel like everything you buy is worse now than before? From low quality clothing and shoes to cheaply made electronics to flimsy furniture, it seems like you’re no longer getting your money’s worth. But is this just a perception, or is there really a trend of quality decline in the things we buy? In this video, we’ll examine the possible reasons behind this phenomenon. From cost cutting measures due to inflation to changes in consumer behavior, there’s a lot at play. Add the rise of fast fashion, disposable culture, the greenwashing of products, and planned obsolescence, and you’ll find that corporate greed is at the root of it all.
“You all go into debt and you all hate each other ” Now you know!
Professor Jiang Xueqin delivers a chilling breakdown of how modern consumerism traps people in a cycle of comfort, obedience, and silent submission. From phones to fast fashion, you’re not choosing freely — you’re being managed. This isn’t freedom. It’s slavery perfected.
There’s a plush goblin haunting luxury boutiques and TikTok feeds. Its ears are sharp. Its grin is chaotic. Its name is Labubu—and it’s being cradled like a rosary by grown adults who should know better.
But this isn’t a story about a toy. It’s a story about us. About late-stage capitalism, spiritual starvation, and the strange things we choose to love when reality no longer loves us back.
A Totem of Belonging
In the post-everything world—post-truth, post-community, post-authenticity—belonging has been outsourced to brands.
Enter Labubu.
Created by Hong Kong artist Kasing Lung and mass-produced by Chinese collectibles giant Pop Mart, Labubu isn’t just cute—it’s coded. It’s an aesthetic cipher. A subcultural handshake. A passport into a secret society of hyper-curated taste.
“I’m not mainstream. I’m initiated. I collect emotions, not just objects.”
Like any good totem, it offers safety. Like any good flex, it offers status. And in a culture where identity is pieced together through possessions, Labubu becomes a holy relic in the temple of self-curation.
Adults today are drowning in dread—economic, ecological, existential. We’ve been asked to function in a world on fire. So we cling to anything that reminds us of a time before collapse.
Labubu is innocence, shrink-wrapped. It’s climate-proof nostalgia. It doesn’t age, complain, or ask anything of you. It just smiles—eerily, endlessly.
In a society addicted to productivity, Labubu is a plush permission slip to regress, to soften, to feel.
Here’s how it works: you buy a box without knowing what’s inside. Maybe it’s common. Maybe it’s rare. Maybe it’s worth hundreds. Maybe it completes your set. Maybe it doesn’t.
The mechanism is simple:
Hope → Anticipation → Reveal → Repeat.
Every box is a lottery ticket for the emotionally overdrawn. Every unboxing is a micro-hit of meaning in a culture that offers less of it each day.
This isn’t collecting. It’s ritualized uncertainty, engineered scarcity, weaponized whimsy.
Post-Product Capitalism
Once upon a time, objects had use. Now, they have aura.
Labubu doesn’t clean your house, store data, or solve problems. It just means something.
In the new economy of symbols: – Labubu is a TikTok backdrop – A status charm on a Balenciaga bag – A speculative asset flipping for $1,000 on resale sites
Function is obsolete. Semiotics is everything.
Labubu is pure vibe—cute chaos for an unlivable world. It’s the ideal product for a system that no longer produces value, only vibes.
Fashion’s Weaponization of Whimsy
If fashion is the oracle of capitalism, then Labubu is its plush prophecy.
High-end style has abandoned heritage for absurdity. “Kidcore,” “weird-cute,” “lowbrow luxe”—all symbols of rebellion against old money elegance. And Labubu, with its glitchy grin and deviant innocence, fits right in.
Rihanna, Dua Lipa, and Lisa from BLACKPINK have all flaunted Labubu accessories. Not because it’s luxurious—but because it’s knowing. Ironic. Post-ironic. Meta-ironic.
In a world allergic to sincerity, cuteness becomes camouflage for power.
So, Are People Crazy?
No. They are spiritually bankrupt, algorithmically seduced, and starved for something—anything—that feels warm and loyal.
Labubu is the emotional pet of a society that can’t afford real connection anymore. It doesn’t ghost you. It doesn’t betray you. It doesn’t log off.
It just sits. Soft. Smiling. Waiting to be wanted.
We Are the Monsters
Labubu isn’t a glitch. It’s a signal. A warning wrapped in faux fur. It tells us what we’ve become:
Collectors of comfort. Gamblers of meaning. Children playing dress-up in adult collapse.
We thought we were buying toys. But we were buying therapy. We were buying tribe. We were buying time.
And in doing so, we told the truth we didn’t want to speak out loud:
We are the monsters now. And Labubu is the only one brave enough to love us anyway.
The Quiet Rebellion of Becoming a Maker in a World of Shoppers
They told you who you were in price tags.
Your taste? That’s your streaming algorithm. Your vibe? It’s your sneakers, your iPhone case, your skincare routine. Your tribe? It’s who you follow, what you order, what you wear.
We used to introduce ourselves with names. Now we do it with brands. We all try to create our personal brands and interact with them.
And it’s no accident. Because if they can convince you that identity lives in the checkout cart, they never have to teach you how to create your own.
The Subtle Lie of Lifestyle
Capitalism doesn’t just sell things. It sells selves. Curated. Packaged. Predictable.
You don’t like oat milk. You’re an Oat Milk Person™. You didn’t just go to Burning Man. You are Burning Man. You didn’t just buy a Tesla. You bought virtue, tech-savviness, and status in one click.
But here’s the catch: Consumption is hollow. No matter how much you buy, you’re always left with more craving than clarity.
Because deep down, we all know:
You don’t become someone by choosing between flavors. You become someone when you build something real.
Creation: The Lost Mirror
When was the last time you made something that wasn’t for likes or money? A story. A garden. A tool. A ritual. A real moment of care that couldn’t be posted?
We’ve forgotten the texture of selfhood that comes from effort. From choosing your own inputs. From sitting in the friction of making.
Because building is slow. Messy. Unmonetized. Which is exactly why it’s yours.
You Are Not a Brand. You Are a Builder.
We’ve been trained to curate ourselves like storefronts. But your soul isn’t a product page.
You are not the shoes you saved up for. You are the conversation you started. You are the community you shaped. You are the words you strung together when you didn’t know if they’d land. You are the thing you made when no one was watching.
That is identity.
Not what you signal. What you sow.
A Personal Vow
I don’t want to be remembered for what I owned. I want to be remembered for what I offered. I want my life to be proof that I made something out of the chaos— even if it didn’t scale. Even if it didn’t sell. Even if no one clapped.
Because in a world designed to reduce us to shoppers,
creation is a quiet form of rebellion.
You are not what you buy. You are what you build.
Don’t forget that. Everything else is advertising and nonsense!
“Love isn’t measured in carats, in candlelit dinners, or in how much we spend. It’s measured in the quiet moments, the small gestures, the everyday kindness that no marketing campaign can sell us.”
Every February, it happens like clockwork. The ads start rolling in—diamonds, chocolates, five-star dinner reservations. Billboards whisper, If you really love them, you’ll buy this.
And before we know it, Valentine’s Day starts to feel less like a celebration of love and more like a test of how much we’re willing to spend.
But let’s be honest—was love ever supposed to look like this?
When Did Love Get a Price Tag?
There was a time when love was handwritten letters. When it was long walks, late-night conversations, stolen moments. But somewhere along the way, something changed.
A century ago, Valentine’s Day was simple. Then the greeting card industry got involved. Then the jewelry companies. Then the florists, the restaurants, the luxury brands. Now?
The average American spends $192 on Valentine’s Day.
The holiday generates over $25 billion a year in sales.
And if you don’t buy into it? Society tells you you’re doing it wrong.
Love didn’t get stronger because we started spending more. But profits sure did.
The High Cost of Manufactured Romance
Here’s the problem: When we’re told love has a price, we start believing it.
If the flowers aren’t expensive enough, maybe they don’t love me.
If my partner doesn’t plan something extravagant, maybe we’re losing the spark.
If I can’t afford to celebrate the “right” way, maybe I’m not enough.
And just like that, a holiday meant to celebrate love turns into a source of stress, guilt, and comparison.
Real Love Can’t Be Bought
Think about the moments in your life when you felt truly loved.
Was it when someone spent a fortune on you? Or was it:
When they remembered something small that mattered to you?
When they listened—really listened—to what you had to say?
When they showed up for you when you needed them most?
Love isn’t in the receipts. It’s in the time, the effort, the thoughtfulness.
A handwritten note lasts longer than roses. A shared experience means more than a diamond. A moment of undivided attention is priceless.
But that’s not what corporations want us to believe—because there’s no profit in it.
Redefining Valentine’s Day: A Love That Includes Everyone
And here’s another thing—love is more than romance.
Why should February 14th only belong to couples? Why not use it to celebrate:
The friends who’ve been there through every season of your life.
The family members who love you unconditionally.
The community that lifts you up.
Yourself. Because self-love matters too.
What if we redefined Valentine’s Day—not as a day to consume, but as a day to connect?
Instead of buying, we gave our time.
Instead of posting, we had real conversations.
Instead of stressing over the perfect gift, we made someone feel seen.
Because love—real love—was never about money. It was about meaning.
The Choice Is Ours
At the end of the day, we decide what love looks like.
We can let corporations keep selling us a version of romance built on price tags. Or we can take love back—make it simple, make it meaningful, make it ours again.
Because no matter what the commercials tell us, love was never meant to be bought.
