In our new TikTok Report, we look at the good, the bad, and the straight-up bizarre songs spreading across the platform via dances and memes.

About a month ago, the supermodel Emily Ratajkowski—patron saint of #HotGirlsforBernie, champion of Medicare and low-rise jeans for all—uploaded a TikTok of herself dancing to a song called “Supalonely.” Flaunting her world-famous abs in a white crop-top, Ratajkowski bopped along to the song’s relatably self-loathing lyrics. “I know I fucked up/I'm just a loser,” sings BENEE, a New Zealand teen with turquoise e-girl hair, while Ratajkowski formed an “L” with her fingers and flashed it around. It was a mind-boggling performance: The Forbes 30 under 30 recipient was so off-sync that a commenter casually anointed her the “CEO of not getting the beat.” Watching the dance while shoveling rigatoni into my face, I had to pause to sigh wistfully: Wow celebrities—they’re just like me.

TikTok’s trend-setting prowess has given famous people an even greater incentive to dip their toes into the mortal world. A little song and dance comes with the possibility of a handsome reward, at least for the musicians: hits that soundtrack TikTok memes clobber their way to the top of Spotify’s Viral 50 with the rapaciousness of King Kong scaling the Empire State Building. It usually works like this: some impossibly cool teenager with above-average rhythm choreographs a dance; said dance must be rudimentary enough for anyone to learn—give or take a few hours and several YouTube tutorials—but dynamic enough for you to look impressive if you put in the work. Like a fast-casual burrito, TikTok dances are customized from the same basic ingredients, but adding something new and spicy to the mix can work wonders. Particularly fresh choreo—or at least moves backed by the right influencer—can single-handedly rocket a song to the top of the viral charts. Such is the case with “Supalonely,” which hit the Billboard Hot 100 in late March, a few days after Ratajkowski’s video and four months after being released on BENEE’s Stella and Steve EP.

The song’s ascent on TikTok began about seven weeks earlier. On February 7, Zoi Lerma (@zoifishh), a college freshman living in L.A., uploaded a TikTok of an original dance set to “Supalonely,” the same one that EmRata would later butcher. The snippet starts at the song’s 50-second mark; you hear an exasperated yell, two clinks, and drum hits in rapid succession before reaching the chorus, which, like many songs adored by the mom-jeans set, talks about being sad and uncoupled. The production doesn’t quite align with the moody lyrics, though. Sun-dappled and funky, the music has the feel-good ease of sprawling out on a picnic blanket. (This ease doesn’t translate fully to the music video, where the song’s featured artist, Gus Dapperton, flops around like one of those inflatable tube men.) “It feels like a summer song,” Lerma tells me. “You feel like you have to roll the windows down and drive around to it.”

Lerma’s backyard-set TikTok mirrors this breeziness: you can see power lines strung against a mellow blue sky, and the grass is so green it looks like Microsoft Windows wallpaper. Her moves are typically jerkier and harder-edged than those of other dancer-influencers, but here her motions are fluid and bouncy. As she hits imaginary drums and throws a middle finger up in the air, her messy brown hair bounces with her, occasionally obstructing her face, and her faded purple jacket dangles off her shoulder. This is the youthful rebellion advertised in Urban Outfitters catalogues. It makes you want to sue your teenage self for being so damn uncool.