By Qing Jiang
I live on the top floor of Building 27. The sun scorches the reinforced concrete rooftop, and the heat lingers until four or five in the morning. As a result, my bed is nothing like those in Guiyang—during the summer, it’s essentially a full-coverage electric blanket. It’s unbearably hot, I fall asleep late, and dawn comes early. The construction workers start their noisy labor early too, so I inevitably wake up early, my pillow drenched in sweat. I’d love to go back to sleep, but the moment I pick up my phone and open Bilibili, I give up on the idea—though I’m still exhausted. So I drag myself out of bed, turn off my phone, sit naked in front of my computer, and start pondering: What do we actually gain from spending so much time on video platforms?
These days, I rarely watch soap operas or idol dramas for two reasons. First, they consume an enormous amount of time. I’m still a student, fully devoted to my studies, and though I occasionally earn some money working for my advisor, that income is like stumbling upon wild strawberries (white pao) while herding cattle in the mountains—it might improve my life slightly, but it’s nowhere near enough to sustain me. Right now, I’m not even part of the proletariat, though for the past twenty-plus years, I’ve been entirely supported by the purest form of proletarian labor. If I were to immerse myself in soap operas produced at great cost, it would mean trading my wild strawberries and the labor of those who support me for their entertainment. That’s a transaction I refuse to make—it would weigh too heavily on my conscience.
The second reason is my belief in the “tittytainment” theory. I don’t want to be treated like an infant, my life stifled by a pacifier. If I were truly a baby, I’d probably love that pacifier. But I’ve grown up a little now, and I know that no matter how realistic or satisfying the pacifier feels, sucking on it day and night won’t yield a single drop of milk. At best, it’ll stimulate my mouth to produce saliva, which I’ll swallow, mistaking it for nourishment.
There are many manufacturers of these pacifiers, and their quality varies. Some are made with integrity—their pacifiers are attached to bottles filled with formula, which still contains some nutrients. Finding such pacifiers isn’t a bad deal. But most are questionable. You can’t even guess what they’re made of—maybe a lump of clay, a scrap of torn pants, and a sprinkle of lime to mimic powdered bone, all mashed together and molded into a nipple. The result? A pacifier they claim is “down-to-earth,” “full of depth,” and “weathered by life.” You might think my description is exaggerated, and even I feel that way as I write this. But honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if some were made from animal waste.
In recent years, with the rise of short-video platforms, things have taken a turn. A small group of people realized that users could make their own pacifiers if given the raw materials and a platform to sell them. Thus, short-video platforms flourished. This shift terrifies me. Everyone from 7-year-olds to 70-year-olds can participate in this cycle, and the harm is obvious. A 7-year-old should be learning about the real world; a 17-year-old should be planning how to make life better and then spending the next 50 years putting that plan into action.
Many people enjoy watching others’ lives—myself included. Seeing people different from us broadens our horizons, while seeing those similar to us fosters empathy. We’re happy to watch all kinds of people. At the same time, many are eager to share their lives, especially when they receive validation and praise, which encourages even more sharing. This innate desire is the foundation of the pacifier market. That said, there are also those who distill their spiritual insights into “formula” and scatter it across the market—unpackaged, unlabeled, and requiring time to “brew.”
I don’t deny the validity of these pacifiers. Looking back over the past few years, I’ve had plenty shoved into my mouth—even this morning, I sucked on one for nearly an hour. But it doesn’t feel right. We’re living, breathing people. We need formula, the nutrients within it, to grow—especially our spiritual selves. Yet here’s the paradox: when we suck on a dry pacifier, we don’t spit it out. The saliva in our mouths creates the illusion that we’re getting milk, but every cell in our bodies screams in hunger. This drives us to suck even harder, trapping us in a vicious cycle until we starve to death—spiritually.
Anyone can tell whether a pacifier has milk behind it. But we’re lazy. When we’re half-starved, the pacifier-makers use recommendation algorithms to shove their products into our mouths from all directions, even blocking our search for real nourishment. Usually, a simple swipe would clear the way, but often we can’t even muster the effort to do that. Instead, we instinctively give the pacifier a taste, just for the sensation. It’s like masturbation—except the latter’s physical toll forces you to stop eventually, while the former doesn’t.
So far, I’ve only described the problem without offering a solution. Here it is: Refuse the pacifiers shoved in your face. Use search functions to pinpoint the nutrients you need. In your free time, explore—whether in the real world, online, or in bookstores. If you encounter a pacifier, don’t suck it. If you find a bottle, shake it to see if there’s milk inside. Follow this approach, and you should be able to find enough sustenance.
Indeed, life is filled with various pressures and challenges. These pressures may make life dull and monotonous, causing us to feel hungry more quickly and leaving us with little time to seek proper nourishment. Occasionally indulging in some comforting “pacifiers” can be meaningful. However, it is essential to understand the purpose behind these pacifiers. More importantly, we must recognize that our spirit is different from our physical body. Our spirit would rather consume nothing at all than feed on the saliva produced by the stimulation of such pacifiers.