This is the first installment in a weeklong series of the Wildcat staff’s favorite things of 2025.

For a generation raised on heated comment section wars on Reddit and rage farming on Instagram Reels, it’s fitting that the word “ragebait” reached peak ubiquity in 2025. 

“Ragebait,” as defined by Oxford University Press (which also named the term its Word of the Year), is “content deliberately designed to elicit anger or outrage by being frustrating, provocative, or offensive.” 

The word is perfectly symbolic of an era in which seemingly everything posted online is curated to elicit reactions (mostly negative ones) to feed “engagement,” to generate clicks.

Scrolling through a 20-part TikTok series just to be left on a cliffhanger? Ragebait.

People spreading obvious misinformation? Ragebait. 

Someone arguing their flat-earth theory? Ragebait. 

But the word has, over the course of the year, evolved beyond the internet and can describe any general annoyance, from stepping into a puddle while wearing Birkenstocks, to a friend insisting that at least one of the pizzas needs to include pineapple. 

A teacher announcing a project the day before winter break? Ragebait. 

Your pencil running out of lead right before a test? Ragebait. 

Slow walkers in the hallways? Ragebait.

The word has become a part of our daily vernacular, a way to succinctly describe daily lives filled with click-bait, “IRL” rage farming, and any other annoyance and inconvenience. (The student fumbling with their ID in the lunch line? Ragebait.)

But the words weren’t all bad in 2025. 

Words like “canon event,” “delulu,” and “rizz” help us navigate our lives with humor. Our constantly evolving For You Page helps perpetually and algorithmically introduce us to new words like “mid,” “aura,” “NPC” and “6-7.”

Slang allows us to name things specific to our generation. While nobody over the age of 25 will understand the deep lore of “tung-tung-sahur” and the John Pork cinematic universe, we do, and it’s pretty fun to have something to ourselves when so much of what we have is controlled by others. 

Using slang also allows us to talk to people we wouldn’t otherwise have something in common with; it bridges the gap between cliques and builds bonds.

Our grandparents did it, too, with slang generated out of change and rebellion and music (think “groovy,” “right on,” and “peace out”). Our parents — children of the oversized ’80s and ’90s — adopted the catchphrases “totally,” “bogus,” “as if” and “rad.” 

We’ve carved out new language from comment sections, Twitch streams, algorithms, and viral memes. But our slang is more than throwaway internet noise — it’s the sound of our lives. These words stick because they feel like us: chaotic, funny, unhinged, evolving. They’re the shortcuts that help us decode each other.

Slang grows with us, shifts with us, and captures the exact moment we’re in. It’s our way of leaving a mark — loud, fast, and completely our own.