The Simple Joy Of Having A B*tch Eating Crackers

“I could have sworn I blocked this girl,” I said to myself, scrolling on my FYP and stumbling upon one of my least favorite influencers. I watched her whole TikTok anyway: a video of her presenting prosaic life advice like it was pure innovation and not regurgitated from every self-help book on the market. Then, I clicked into her profile to view the rest of her page, soaking up every moment of second-hand cringe.

Am I evil? Maybe. But if I am, I’m not alone. Everyone has had a “b*tch eating crackers” experience at some point. There’s a reason those Reddit snark pages have tens of thousands of members. It may seem f*cked up, but sometimes, it can be fun to be a hater. (Yes, my New Year’s resolution is to get some more fulfilling hobbies.)

The term “b*tch eating crackers” comes from an early 2010s meme: “Once you hate someone, everything they do is offensive. ‘Look at this b*tch eating those crackers like she owns the place.’” As an extremely online person, I still see this term years later, and it’s become my way of making sense of my (and my friends’) hate follows.

The BEC (the shorthand for “b*tch eating crackers,” not a bacon, egg, and cheese) phenomenon is about relishing in the act of loathing, whether that contempt is based on legit or petty reasons. (A harmless kind of petty; a BEC isn’t an excuse to make fun of their looks — that’s just mean.) It’s the kind of annoyance that turns someone into a constant source of irritation. Anyone can be your BEC: your uncle, your co-worker, or your favorite hate-follow. When it comes to influencers, these feelings generally start from a reasonable place — maybe they lied about a brand partnership or had problematic tweets resurface — but have transformed into full-fledged hostility.

She has horrific, rancid vibes. Like, ew.

“It’s OK to hate some people because some people are bad,” Charlotte*, 22, a California-based college student, defends the right to BECs. It might seem unnatural to feel this strongly about someone you’ve never met, but TikTokers regularly exaggerate their personalities to encourage engagement — so whatever traits fall into their niche will be constantly thrown in your face. If that trait just so happens to be your pet peeve, feeling some loathing isn’t exactly surprising.

Caitlin*, 28, who works in the beauty industry in New York City, describes her BEC like this: “She has horrific, rancid vibes. Like, ew. You’re just an over-sharer on the internet who gets too drunk, but you post like you’re doing something groundbreaking.”

That may sound extreme, but it comes from Caitlin taking issue with the alcohol-obsessed era of influencers — especially those who shame people for being sober-curious. “If your only quirk is that you get really f*cked up and you’re really hungover, that’s just boring and low-hanging fruit,” she says. “I think you should try harder to be more interesting.”

I am guilty of sending a TikTok to my friends, prefacing it with, ‘full body cringe,’ to set expectations accordingly.

Holly*, a 28-year-old consultant in New York, also has a few BECs. It’s not the over-drinking that rubs her the wrong way, though. It’s the unfiltered sex talk. “I don’t think it’s cute, her aggressive need to be sexual and vulgar,” she says about one of her BECs. “In one video, she was having a normal conversation with someone and suddenly turned it super vulgar. The other girl seemed really uncomfortable, and it’s like, ‘Leave her alone.’”

The super positive, always-smiling influencers annoy Leah*, a 24-year-old writer who’s based in Brooklyn, New York. She describes her BEC like this: “I couldn’t stand her. I just found her to be annoying. The videos were a little too joyful to the point they seemed phony and cringe.”

I don’t share the same criteria for my BECs. While I don’t mind aggressive hangovers, sex talk, or over-the-top cheeriness, I cannot stand the way certain content creators present themselves, acting as if every mundane thought that pops into their heads is worthy of a Ph.D. I am guilty of sending a TikTok to my friends, prefacing it with, “full body cringe,” to set expectations accordingly.

Hating on the same stuff bonds you. It’s the glue of surface-level friendships.

It’s pretty common to bond over these BECs with your friends, even if they aren’t on the same hater level as you. “When I complain about her, most people agree with me except for the guys who think she's hot,” Holly says. “Hating on the same stuff bonds you. It’s the glue of surface-level friendships, and that’s OK,” Emily, a 30-year-old who works in marketing in Chicago, adds. Truly, there’s nothing livelier than a brunch conversation about people who drive you nuts. Dare I say that it is not only harmless, it’s also kind of joyful?

BECs are strictly one-sided feuds, so the sh*t talking only exists offline (you’re not a troll, after all). My BECs are exclusively for my and my inner circle’s enjoyment. Caitlin agrees, “I would never in my entire life comment on something or send them a DM. I won’t even engage in anything on Reddit. I just lurk there.”

But if you catch yourself thinking that an influencer’s brand is kinda lame? Perfectly fine. I’d even argue that it’s encouraged. As long as you’re keeping this type of hate away from the eyes of these influencers, you’re simply enacting your sacred right to gossip. So, hate on — your BECs will be none the wiser.

*Name has been changed.