Like seemingly everyone else on the internet last week, I watched Florida-based fitness influencer Ashton Hall’s viral morning routine video.
If you haven’t, here’s a quick recap: Hall wakes up at 3:52 a.m, removes his mouth tape, brushes his teeth, washes his mouth out with water from a glass bottle of Saratoga Spring Water, rubs Rogaine on his goatee, drinks some more Saratoga Spring Water, does some pushups on his balcony, prays (?), journals, watches something on his iPad, dunks his head in a Saratoga Spring Water ice bath, gets dressed, goes to the steam room, works out, rubs a banana peel on his face, then onto another Saratoga face dunk all while staring into the camera.
Nearly every aspect of Hall’s routine has been examined, from the absurd start time and the bizarre wellness rituals to the relentless promotion of Saratoga Spring Water. It’s a must-see, cringeworthy spectacle. But an aspect of the video lingered in my mind long after I considered whether mouth taping is an effective sleep protocol — Hall’s eyes. Or rather, the void emanating from them, regardless of his actions.
In 2022, writer Rayne Fisher-Quann observed a similar expression proliferating among female influencers, dubbing it the “dissociative pout.” She argued that the goal of the viral phenomenon was “the performance of detachment,” citing an argument in Emmeline Clein’s The Smartest Women I Know Are All Dissociating, which noted a shift from earnestness to meta-irony in feminist discourse.
But while the “dissociative pout” and Hall’s vacant stare share a surface-level similarity, there’s a crucial distinction. The “dissociative pout” was about a performative weariness, a world-weary disaffection. Hall’s expression, on the other hand, projects something far more unsettling: the abyss. Hall isn’t bored, he appears fundamentally disconnected from human feeling. Think of the thousand-yard stare of one of Mark Zuckerberg’s metaverse avatars. Or, the NPC-face meme — a digital shorthand for individuals perceived as unable to think for themselves.
You might have noticed a similar theme plastered across the curated feeds of “day in my life” influencers. In particular, the now-infamous Connor Hubbard, who captured his 9-to-5 existence with the same unsettlingly blank apathy.
For those who don’t remember, Hubbard went viral in 2023 for documenting his soul-crushing portrayal of the modern office worker. His content, a series of tightly edited vignettes featured protein shakes, gym sessions, and the endless, monotonous hum of staring into different-sized screens.
It’s the digital equivalent of watching paint dry. Yet it captivated millions by becoming a kind of dark mirror to the collective anxieties of so many 9-to-5 workers. “I just wanna create a safe space for people to know that what you’re doing is completely fine,” Hubbard told GQ in 2024. “Stop comparing yourself to what you’ve seen on 90% of social media.”
Which may be true. But again, take note of the expression Hubbard uses to convey his positive message — eyes utterly devoid of emotion. You could call it Zen. Or, like Hubbard, you could call it “normal.” In fact, chances are if you work on a computer, you’ve probably seen this pacified version of yourself.
Think of the unsettling Zoom moment: joining a meeting early and being confronted with your own dead-eyed, screen-numb reflection. It’s not a good look. And if you’re like me, you go camera-off until another person joins the meeting.
In that sense, the”NPC gaze, isn’t just a social media phenomenon; it’s a reflection of our increasingly screen-dominated lives. And research suggests that the consequences of such prolonged exposure, particularly for young people, lead to reduced cognitive functioning and issues with emotional regulation.
It’s a stark reminder that the digital detachment in influencers like Hall and Hubbard isn’t just a performance; it might be a reflection of neurological shifts occurring within us all. Much like the life-sized doll depicting what the average office worker could look like in 20 years, the NPC gaze is a preview of our collective emotional landscape. It’s no wonder Hall’s morning routine includes multiple daily ice baths for his face.
