To drive 150 BeReal downloads, I'd launch a guerrilla campaign blending irony and authenticity—starting with a "Failed Influencer" parody account posting cringey staged BeReal attempts ("Oops, took 27 tries to look casual!"). I'd recruit 20 college micro-influencers to run a "Most Chaotic BeReal" contest, where their followers submit unedited moments via screenshots for a chance to be featured, using trackable referral links. Simultaneously, I'd partner with indie coffee shops to create "BeReal Brew" stickers with QR codes that unlock a "secret menu" item when scanned, turning downloads into an IRL treasure hunt. For the finale, I'd hijack a trending audio meme on TikTok with a duet challenge showing "before" (Instagram-perfect) vs "after" (BeReal reality) moments, leveraging the algorithm while mocking it—because nothing sells anti-social-media like social media done right.

No but I love the concept of BeReal—it’s a breath of fresh air in the overly curated world of social media. The app’s raw, unfiltered format (no likes, no ads, no endless scrolling) forces authenticity, and the daily time-sensitive notifications create a fun, low-pressure ritual with friends. Plus, the dual-camera feature accidentally captures some of the most hilariously relatable moments—no performative perfection, just real life.

No