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Maybe We're All to Blame For the Creation of Viral Mini-Biebs Jacob Sartorius

There are lots of reasons to look at a kid like Jacob Satorius, the 13-year-old tween dream behind viral music video “Sweatshirt,” and think “What happened? Where did we go wrong?”

Image from Facebook.

There are lots of reasons to look at a kid like Jacob Satorius, the 13-year-old tween dream behind viral music video “Sweatshirt,” and think “What happened? Where did we go wrong?” Try watching this video, for example, without going completely and totally insane:

But maybe it's fine because he’s only like 13-years-old, he’s not really hurting anybody, and anyway, did he even choose this? Or did our own voracious appetite for cringey viral sensations and young blood and completely under-qualified and underdeveloped sex symbols create him? The world may never know.

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What it does know is that “Sweatshirt” is a verifiable cringe-fest. And not verifiable in a Megyn Kelly way but in a literal, using-the-word-literally, literal way.

How did we get here? Who let this happen? What is the point of living?

Maybe it’s not his fault he makes extremely bad music and keeps recording maniacal videos of himself licking his lips and raising his eyebrows like this terrifying human being, or some kid you’d catch trying to fingerbang your kid sister, though, because according to extremely reliable sources his mother is actually behind his social media accounts. Which is really weird when you consider the typical day-to-day content:

RT IF YOU WANNA DATE! pic.twitter.com/j2FNKF5xeV

— Jacob Sartorius (@jacobsartorius) June 24, 2016

You got me smiling more

A photo posted by Jacob Sartorius (@jacobsartorius) on Jul 6, 2016 at 11:20am PDT

You're not even smiling Jacob!!!

He’s also been accused of harassing a young fan for nude and barely-dressed pictures which doesn’t seem at all out of the realm of possibilities—because nudes are to white teenaged boys what spinach is to Popeye—except that Satorius’ official Facebook page allegedly wasn’t active when the messages were allegedly sent. Allegedly.

All this is by-the-by, though, because in the stark light of everything, with all manner of sins out on the table—from the eyebrows to the stop-motion sweatshirt, the namesake of the song, that follows the girl of his dreams around school in the hopes of catching her and, most likely, possessing her unsuspecting body like a vessel so that it can finally live amongst the humans and satiate its thirst for blood—it is the following abomination that will have you laying awake, staring at the ceiling in the light of the moon, for years—possibly millennia—to come:

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In the immortal words of Aubrey Graham, nothing was the same.

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