Chinese Slang Decoded: 50 Words You'll Actually Hear

Your Mandarin teacher lied to you (by omission)

You spent months learning how to say "the weather is very good today" and "I would like two jin of apples, please." You can recite the four tones. You know the difference between 了 and 过. You feel cautiously prepared.

Then you land in Shenzhen, open WeChat, and somebody sends you "666 YYDS." Your Didi driver mutters something about 内卷. The girl at the milk tea shop says a sentence that's 40% internet abbreviations. And you realize that textbook Mandarin and real Chinese are two completely different operating systems.

Chinese slang evolves faster than any language on the internet. A lot of it comes straight out of Shenzhen's tech culture — when your city houses Tencent (WeChat), Huawei, DJI, and half the startups in China, the memes generate themselves. Douyin (Chinese TikTok) accelerates everything. A word can go from niche gaming term to something your taxi driver says in about three weeks.

This is the stuff your teacher skipped. Not because they didn't know it, but because no curriculum can keep up. Here are the 50 slang words and phrases you'll actually encounter on the ground in Shenzhen — grouped by where you'll run into them.

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Internet and digital slang

These are the ones you'll see in WeChat groups, Douyin comments, livestream chats, and basically everywhere online. If you're looking at a Chinese person's phone over their shoulder on the metro (you will — everyone does), this is what's flying across the screen.

666 (liuliuliu) — "awesome" / "skilled"

The granddaddy of Chinese internet slang. 666 comes from 溜 (liu), meaning "smooth" or "slick." When someone does something impressive — a sick gaming move, a perfect parallel park, a bartender who flips three bottles at once — the chat fills with 666.

Think of it as the Chinese equivalent of "GG" or spamming fire emojis. You'll see it in livestreams, comment sections, and WeChat groups. It's universally understood, universally safe to use, and makes you look like you've been paying attention.

The more 6s, the more impressed. 6666666 = standing ovation.

YYDS (永远的神, yongyuan de shen) — "forever god" = GOAT

Literally "eternal god." This one escaped from gaming culture around 2021 and never went back. When a League of Legends player pulled off an impossible play, the chat screamed YYDS. Now people use it for everything. The hotpot place that always has a two-hour line? YYDS. The coworker who somehow finished the project before the deadline? YYDS. Jay Chou? Permanently YYDS.

It's basically "GOAT" — greatest of all time — but with more dramatic Chinese flair. You'll hear people actually say the letters Y-Y-D-S out loud, which still feels slightly absurd and that's part of the charm.

XSWL (笑死我了, xiao si wo le) — "laughing to death" = LMAO

Typing Chinese characters takes more taps than English letters, so abbreviations rule. XSWL is pinyin shorthand for 笑死我了 — "I'm laughing myself to death." Same energy as LMAO. You'll see this one in group chats, comment sections, and under any video of someone doing something stupid.

AWSL (啊我死了, a wo si le) — "ah I'm dead" = "I can't even"

The cute overload abbreviation. When someone posts a photo of their cat doing something ridiculous, or a Douyin video of a baby being adorable, or their idol looking particularly good — AWSL. It's the "I'm literally deceased" of Chinese internet. Used almost exclusively for things that are cute, sweet, or heart-melting.

One important distinction: most internet abbreviations (XSWL, AWSL, YYDS's letter form) are text-only vocabulary. Saying "XSWL" out loud will get a very confused look. YYDS crosses into spoken Chinese occasionally, but the others stay firmly in WeChat and Douyin comments. When in doubt, use the full Chinese phrase (笑死我了) if speaking, and the abbreviation only when typing.

哈 vs 哈哈哈 — the number of 哈s matters

This is the single most practically useful communication insight in this entire guide. A single 哈 is NOT a laugh — it's the WeChat equivalent of "noted" or mild awkwardness. Think of it as the Chinese "k." Two 哈哈 is polite acknowledgment. Three or more 哈哈哈 means genuine amusement. Foreigners reading a single 哈 as warmth (because "haha" in English is always positive) will consistently misread tone.

This trips up every foreigner on WeChat. You send someone a message, they reply "哈," and you think the conversation went well. It didn't — or at least, it didn't go the way you'd read "haha" in English. The emotional temperature is closer to "okay" than "that's funny."

When in doubt, match or exceed the number of 哈s you receive. If someone sends you 哈哈哈哈哈, they're actually laughing. If they send you 哈, change the subject.

yysy (有一说一, you yi shuo yi) — "to be honest" / "real talk"

Another pinyin abbreviation. It means "saying it like it is" — you drop this before an honest opinion that might not be popular. "yysy, that new hotpot place everyone lines up for is pretty mid." It's the disclaimer before a take, the Chinese "no cap."

绝绝子 (juejuezi) — "absolutely amazing"

Peak Douyin-era slang. 绝 means "supreme" or "absolute," and the 子 suffix is a Douyin-ism that makes everything sound cuter and more expressive. When you try a dish and it's unreasonably good, or you walk into a scenic spot and the view stops you cold — 绝绝子. Fair warning: some people find this one cringe already. That's how fast Chinese internet slang cycles.

破防了 (pofang le) — "defense broken" = emotionally wrecked

Originally from gaming — when your opponent breaks through your defenses. But now it means being emotionally moved or overwhelmed. A heartwarming video about a grandfather meeting his granddaughter for the first time? 破防了. A news story about a delivery driver studying for the college entrance exam between orders? 破防了.

It's not just sadness — it's the moment your emotional wall cracks. Chinese internet loves this one because it gives vocabulary to the specific feeling of being unexpectedly moved by something you saw while scrolling at 2am.

社死 (shesi) — "social death" = extreme public embarrassment

When you wave back at someone who wasn't waving at you. When your mom sends your baby photos to the family group chat. When you walk into a glass door in a mall. That's 社死 — social death.

It's the same concept Western internet has ("I wanted to die of embarrassment"), but condensed into two characters that hit harder. You'll hear young Chinese people use this constantly, usually about something that happened at work or on a date.

(Shenzhen specific note: walking into a glass door in a mall here is a genuine risk. The architecture is aggressive about floor-to-ceiling glass.)

摆烂 (bailan) — "let it rot" = giving up, quiet quitting

When the pressure becomes too much and you decide to stop trying. Not in a dramatic, table-flipping way — more like a peaceful acceptance that the race isn't worth running. You'll hear this one everywhere in Shenzhen, usually from tech workers who've been grinding 996 schedules (9am to 9pm, 6 days a week) and have decided they're done optimizing.

摆烂 is the spiritual cousin of 躺平 (see below), but lazier. 躺平 is a philosophical stance. 摆烂 is just... giving up the pretense. Your apartment's messy? 摆烂. Didn't study for the exam? 摆烂. Eating instant noodles for the third night in a row? 摆烂.

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Social and cultural slang

These are the concepts that actually explain modern Chinese life. If you want to understand why your Chinese friends look permanently tired, why the conversation always turns to housing prices, or why everyone has an opinion about civil service exams — this section is the decoder ring.

内卷 (neijuan) — "involution" = the rat race with no winner

This is THE word of modern China. If you only learn one term from this entire article, make it this one.

内卷 originally came from an academic concept about societies that keep intensifying effort without producing progress. Think of it as an arms race where everyone runs faster but nobody moves forward. In practice, it describes everything about contemporary Chinese life that feels like a trap.

The classic example: parents in Shenzhen spend 200,000 RMB a year on tutoring because every other parent does the same. Nobody's kid gets an advantage, but nobody can afford to stop. The 内卷 is the cycle itself.

In Shenzhen's tech world, it's the reason people work until 11pm not because they have that much work, but because their coworker works until 10pm and leaving before them feels like a career risk. The actual productivity difference is zero, but the performance pressure is real.

Use this word in conversation and Chinese people will look at you differently. You're not a tourist asking about the food anymore — you're someone who understands the pressure.

躺平 (tangping) — "lie flat" = opting out of the rat race

The counter-movement to 内卷. If 内卷 is the disease, 躺平 is one prescription: just... stop participating. Don't buy a house. Don't climb the corporate ladder. Don't get married because society expects it. Work enough to eat, and spend your remaining energy on things you actually enjoy.

躺平 became a national conversation around 2021 when a guy posted about how he lived on 200 RMB a month by doing odd jobs and spending most of his time relaxing. The post went viral because millions of young Chinese people recognized themselves in the philosophy.

The government wasn't thrilled. State media ran editorials about the importance of hard work. But the word stuck. In Shenzhen, you'll hear both sides — the tech workers grinding because they believe in the hustle, and the ones who've quietly opted for the 躺平 life. The tension between these two groups is one of the most interesting cultural currents in the city.

打工人 (dagong ren) — "working person" = the self-deprecating worker

Literally "person who works for someone else." It started as a meme where people would post sardonic motivational quotes — "Good morning, 打工人! Time to make money for your boss!" — with the same energy as American "hustle culture" memes, except laced with irony.

It's self-deprecating in a way that creates solidarity. When a Shenzhen office worker calls themselves 打工人, they're saying: "I know this grind is absurd, you know it's absurd, but here we are." It's an identity marker for the salaried class in a country where entrepreneurship is celebrated but most people still work for someone else.

卷王 (juan wang) — "involution king" = the person who ruins it for everyone

Every office has one. The 卷王 is the colleague who replies to emails at 3am, volunteers for every project, brings coffee for the boss, and never leaves before midnight. They're not necessarily more productive — they just raise the visible effort bar for everyone else.

In Shenzhen tech companies, the 卷王 is a familiar figure. People complain about them in group chats (using the other WeChat group, obviously), but nobody confronts them directly because the culture doesn't reward that kind of conflict. If you want to understand office dynamics in China's tech industry, understanding the 卷王 is essential.

大厂 (dachang) — "big factory" = China's big tech companies

Literally "big factory," and yes, the industrial metaphor is intentional. 大厂 refers to China's tech giants: Tencent, Huawei, Alibaba, ByteDance, Meituan, DJI. In Shenzhen specifically, it usually means Tencent (headquartered in Nanshan) and Huawei (headquartered in Longgang/Dongguan).

Getting into a 大厂 is the Chinese tech equivalent of getting into FAANG. The salaries are significantly above market, the prestige is real, and the burnout is legendary. When someone in Shenzhen says "I'm at a 大厂," they're simultaneously bragging and complaining.

35岁危机 (sanshiwu sui weiji) — "the age 35 crisis"

This one's dark, and it's real. In Chinese tech, there's a widespread (and not unfounded) fear that companies won't hire you after 35. Job listings openly state age caps. Layoffs tend to hit the 35+ cohort first. The combination of high salaries, long hours, and age discrimination creates a countdown clock that everyone in Shenzhen tech is aware of.

When you hear someone in their early 30s talking about 35岁危机, they're not being dramatic. They're doing math — how many more years of 大厂 salary can they bank before the clock runs out? It's one of those cultural realities that surprises foreigners because the anxiety is so open and so specific.

考公 (kaogong) — "take the civil service exam" = the safe path

When the tech dream fades (35岁危机, layoffs, 内卷 exhaustion), many young Chinese people pivot to 考公 — studying for the civil service exam. Government jobs pay less than tech, but they offer stability, predictable hours, and the one thing tech can't: the 铁饭碗 (iron rice bowl), a job you can't be fired from.

The competition is staggering. Some government positions have thousands of applicants for a single spot. In Shenzhen, the 考公 trend is visible in the cafes near Shenzhen University and Shenzhen Library, packed with people studying for the exam on weeknights.

润 (run) — "run" = emigrate, leave China

This one's sensitive. 润 uses the Chinese character that sounds closest to the English word "run." It means to emigrate — to leave China for another country. You'll see it in online discussions (when censors haven't caught it yet) and hear it in private conversations, usually from young professionals who've calculated that the 内卷/35岁危机/housing price equation doesn't work out.

It's not something people say loudly. But in a Shenzhen bar at midnight, among friends, someone will bring up 润 with a mix of humor and genuine consideration. Whether they'll actually do it is another question, but the word existing in the cultural vocabulary tells you something important about the mood.

搞钱 (gao qian) — "make money" / "hustle"

The self-deprecating answer to "what are your plans this weekend?" in every Shenzhen office. Not glamorous, just honest. 搞钱 captures Shenzhen's relationship with work better than any think piece — people aren't passionate about their jobs, they're pragmatic about survival.

You'll see it in WeChat Moments captions, Douyin bios, and on the novelty mugs people keep at their desks. It's a meme, but it's also real. In a city where the cost of living keeps climbing and the 35岁危机 clock keeps ticking, 搞钱 is what everyone's actually doing even when they pretend otherwise. When a Shenzhen friend responds to your weekend plans question with 搞钱, the correct response is solidarity, not suggestions.

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Street and daily life slang

These are the words you'll actually hear with your own ears in Shenzhen — at markets, in taxis, from friends, and from the auntie running the noodle shop downstairs.

牛逼 (niubi) — "awesome" (vulgar but universal)

The Swiss Army knife of Chinese slang. 牛逼 means awesome, incredible, badass. The literal translation is... bovine anatomy. It's vulgar in the same way "badass" is vulgar in English — technically crude, universally used, and not actually offensive in most contexts.

Hear it when: Someone shows you their new car. A street food vendor does something impressive with a wok. Your friend figures out how to get the WeChat mini-program to work. The response is always 牛逼.

When to use it: Among friends and in casual settings — absolutely. In a business meeting or with someone's grandmother — probably not. Among young people in Shenzhen, it's about as shocking as "damn" in English. Read the room, but don't overthink it.

加油 (jiayou) — "add oil" = encouragement, "come on!", "you got this"

The single most useful Chinese phrase that isn't a greeting or a number. 加油 literally means "add oil" (like fuel) and it's used for every kind of encouragement. Running a marathon? 加油! Studying for an exam? 加油! Trying to finish your Shenzhen trip without accidentally paying 500 RMB for a taxi because you didn't use Didi? 加油!

You'll hear it at sports events, from friends, from strangers who see you struggling with chopsticks, and basically any time someone wants to root for you. It's always warm, always genuine, and always appropriate. If you learn one phrase from this article to actually use, this is it.

靠谱 (kaopu) — "reliable" = someone you can trust

When a Chinese person calls you 靠谱, you've been given a genuine compliment. It means you follow through, you're dependable, and you don't flake. In a culture where maintaining relationships (关系, guanxi) is fundamental, being 靠谱 is a currency.

The opposite — 不靠谱 (bu kaopu) — is one of the more damning things you can say about someone. It means they're unreliable, sketchy, or full of empty promises. If someone warns you that a service or vendor is 不靠谱, take it seriously.

AA制 (AA zhi) — splitting the bill

Derived from "All Average" in English (or possibly Dutch — the etymology is debated). In traditional Chinese dining culture, one person picks up the entire bill — it's a status and generosity thing. But among young people in Shenzhen, AA制 is completely normal and nobody thinks twice about it.

The generational and regional split matters here. An older Chinese businessperson would be insulted if you tried to split. A group of Shenzhen 20-somethings will just open WeChat and transfer their share before you've even asked. Know your audience.

打卡 (daka) — "clock in" = check in at a place for social media

Originally meant punching a time clock at work. Now it means visiting a place specifically to post about it — the Chinese version of "doing it for the 'gram." When someone says 去南头古城打卡 ("go to Nantou Ancient Town to check in"), they mean: go there, take photos, post them on Xiaohongshu or WeChat Moments.

In Shenzhen, the 打卡 culture drives entire business models. Cafes are designed to be photogenic. Malls install art installations specifically for 打卡. The food at a 网红 (influencer-famous) restaurant might be mediocre, but the presentation will be photo-ready.

网红 (wanghong) — internet celebrity / influencer

Literally "internet red" (as in popular). A 网红 is an influencer, but the word also extends to describe places, food, and products that became famous through social media. A 网红咖啡 is an influencer-famous cafe. A 网红景点 is a viral photo spot.

In Shenzhen, 网红 status can make or break a restaurant. A single Douyin video can create a two-hour queue overnight. The local wisdom: if a place is 网红 and still has a line after six months, it's probably actually good. If it's new and the line is all people holding phones at weird angles, give it three months and check again.

种草 (zhongcao) — "plant grass" = being influenced to want something

From Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book, China's Instagram-meets-Pinterest) culture. When you see a product review or a post about a cafe and suddenly you want it too, you've been 种草'd — someone planted a seed of desire in you.

拔草 (bacao) — "pull grass" = actually buying or trying the thing

The follow-through to 种草. You saw the post, you wanted the thing, and now you've gone and bought it or visited the place. You've pulled the grass. In Shenzhen's consumer culture, the 种草 to 拔草 pipeline is incredibly short — people see something on Xiaohongshu at lunch and are at the store by dinner.

拿捏 (nanie) — "nailed it" / "has you figured out"

When someone does something perfectly or reads a situation exactly right: 太拿捏了. If a foreigner uses chopsticks flawlessly or orders in decent Mandarin, you might hear this directed at you — it's a genuine compliment. The word captures that moment when someone has total command of what they're doing, no hesitation, no awkwardness.

It's everywhere on Douyin in 2025-2026. A makeup tutorial where someone transforms their face in 30 seconds? 拿捏. A street musician who hits every note? 拿捏. A bartender who slides your drink across the counter and it stops exactly in front of you? 太拿捏了. If you hear it said about you, take the win.

城中村 (chengzhongcun) — "village in the city" = urban villages

Not exactly slang, but you can't understand Shenzhen without this term. 城中村 are the pockets of older, denser housing that survived as the modern city grew around them. They look like nothing else — narrow alleys, tangled wires, neon signs stacked vertically, street food stalls on every corner.

Shenzhen has hundreds of them, and they're where a lot of the city's real life happens. Cheaper rent, better food, more character than any mall. 南头古城 (Nantou Ancient Town) is the most famous — it was renovated into a design-and-dining district that keeps the 城中村 bones but adds coffee shops and art galleries. The food guide covers where to eat in Shenzhen's best neighborhoods, including the 城中村 spots that deliver on taste rather than aesthetics.

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Food slang

You'll spend a disproportionate amount of your time in Shenzhen eating. These words will come up before, during, and after every meal.

早茶 (zaocha) — morning tea / dim sum

The Cantonese tradition that Shenzhen inherited. 早茶 isn't just "having tea in the morning" — it's a full multi-hour dim sum session with dozens of small dishes, a massive tea selection, and a social ritual that matters more than the food itself. Families go on weekends. Business gets done on weekday mornings. Retirees go every single day and have their own preferred tables.

In Shenzhen, 早茶 culture is strongest in Luohu and Futian (the traditionally Cantonese areas). The food guide covers the best spots, but the most important thing to know is: go early (before 9am on weekends) or accept a 40-minute wait.

买单 (maidan) — "the bill please"

The words you need at every meal. 买单 (or 埋单, the Cantonese variant you'll hear in Shenzhen) is how you ask for the check. Raise your hand, make eye contact with the server, and say "买单." That's it. No awkward hand-waving mime. No hoping they notice you. Just the word.

(In most Shenzhen restaurants, you'll actually pay at the counter or via QR code at the table. But 买单 is still the universal signal that you're ready to go.)

团购 (tuangou) — group buy / discount coupon

This is the Shenzhen dining hack that saves real money. 团购 on Dianping (China's Yelp) and Meituan means pre-purchasing a meal deal or a set menu at a discount — usually 20-40% off. You buy the coupon on the app, walk in, show the code, and eat at the discounted price.

Almost every restaurant in Shenzhen participates. Not using 团购 is basically choosing to pay more for the same food. The essential apps guide walks you through setting up Dianping.

网红店 (wanghong dian) — viral / influencer-famous restaurant

A restaurant that got famous through social media. The food might be great. The food might be entirely mediocre but served in a very photogenic way. In Shenzhen, the ratio of 网红 restaurants that are actually good versus purely aesthetic is roughly 1:3. The line outside is not a quality indicator — it's a social media indicator.

排队 (paidui) — queue / to line up

Get used to this word. Shenzhen queues for everything good. If there's a 排队, it might actually mean the food is worth waiting for — or it might mean a Douyin video went viral yesterday. Context matters. A line full of construction workers in a 城中村 at lunchtime? Trust it. A line full of people holding ring lights outside a new dessert shop? Your call.

外卖 (waimai) — food delivery

Shenzhen runs on 外卖. The delivery infrastructure here is one of the most efficient systems in the world — you can order nearly anything and have it at your door in 20-30 minutes. Meituan and Ele.me are the two platforms. The food is the same as what you'd eat in the restaurant, often cheaper because of app-only discounts.

Every Shenzhen local has a 外卖 routine — and so will you by day three.

干饭人 (ganfan ren) — "rice eating warrior" = someone who lives to eat

A self-identifying label for people who take eating seriously. Not in a foodie-as-hobby way — in a "this is why I get out of bed" way. A 干饭人 doesn't care about the restaurant's decor, the plating, or the Instagram angle. They care about whether the rice is good.

In Shenzhen, calling yourself a 干饭人 is both a joke and a genuine statement of values. The city has extraordinary food if you know where to look, and the people who prioritize eating over everything else tend to know where to look.

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Number slang

Chinese number slang exists because many numbers sound like common words when spoken. This creates an entire parallel language of numeric codes — some romantic, some practical, all confusing if you don't know the system.

520 (wu er ling) — "I love you"

Sounds like 我爱你 (wo ai ni). May 20th (5/20) is essentially a second Valentine's Day in China. Sending a WeChat red envelope of 5.20 RMB or 52.0 RMB is a micro love confession. Couples go all-in on this date. If you're in Shenzhen on May 20th and every restaurant is fully booked, now you know why.

1314 — "forever"

Sounds like 一生一世 (yisheng yishi) — "one life, one world" = forever. Often paired with 520 to create 5201314: "I love you forever." You'll see this in WeChat red envelope amounts, license plates, and the occasional hotel room number request.

88 — "bye bye"

Sounds like 拜拜 (baibai), which is borrowed from the English "bye-bye." This is how Chinese people end chats — just type 88. Quick, efficient, and universal. If someone sends you 88, they're not rating your conversation. They're leaving.

233 — laughing

This one's actually a reference, not a homophone. On the Mop forum (one of China's early internet communities), emoji number 233 was a rolling-on-the-floor laughing face. So people started typing 233 to mean "LOL." More 3s = more laughing. 23333333 = losing it.

9527 — worthless person

A deep cut. This comes from Stephen Chow's movie "Flirting Scholar" (唐伯虎点秋香), where the main character is assigned the servant number 9527. Calling someone 9527 means they're a nobody — but it's usually used playfully, among friends, with Stephen Chow energy rather than actual malice.

555 — crying

Sounds like 呜呜呜 (wuwuwu) — the onomatopoeia for sobbing. Used when something sad or frustrating happens. Failed a test? 555. Your 外卖 order got cancelled? 555. It's the text equivalent of a pouty face, and it's rarely about genuinely serious things.

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How to actually use this stuff

You've just absorbed 50 terms. Here's the practical advice: don't use all of them. That would be weird and performative and everyone would know you read an article.

Start with these three — they're universally safe:

• 加油 — say it to anyone, anytime they're trying hard at something. Zero risk.
• 666 — type it in any group chat when someone does something cool. Instant belonging.
• 88 — end your WeChat conversations like a local.

Add these when you're comfortable:

• 牛逼 — powerful but vulgar. Use it among friends first. If the person you're talking to says it, you're cleared to say it back.
• 打卡 — when you're visiting a place specifically for photos, call it what it is. Chinese friends will appreciate the self-awareness.
• 团购 — this one literally saves money. Use the word when asking Chinese friends for restaurant recommendations and they'll show you the Dianping hack.

Use these to go deeper in conversation:

• 内卷 and 躺平 will make Chinese friends think you actually understand their life. These aren't casual words — they're entry points into real conversations about pressure, expectations, and what the good life actually looks like in modern China.
• 大厂 and 35岁危机 work specifically in Shenzhen, where tech culture dominates. Drop these in a conversation with a tech worker and they'll open up about their actual experience instead of giving you the tourist-friendly version.

The number codes are fun but situational:

• 520 on May 20th. 88 at the end of chats. 233 when something's funny. These are texture, not essentials.

One last thing: Chinese slang has a half-life. By the time you read this, 绝绝子 might already sound dated, and there's probably a new Douyin term that replaced something on this list. That's fine. The structural concepts — 内卷, 躺平, 打工人, 摆烂 — those aren't going anywhere. The internet abbreviations rotate. The cultural vocabulary underneath them is the real decoder ring.

The language you'll use most in Shenzhen isn't Mandarin or Cantonese or English — it's the hybrid of all three, laced with internet slang, that people under 40 actually speak. Understanding even a fraction of it changes how people talk to you. You stop being a tourist who knows how to order food, and you become someone who gets it — or at least someone who's trying to, which in China counts for a lot.

For more on how Shenzhen's culture actually works on the ground — beyond the language layer — that guide covers the physical, social, and logistical surprises that catch foreigners off guard. And if you want to put your slang knowledge to work over a meal, the eating guide is where you'll use half these words for real.