Short: Doomscrolling

                         An avid Twitter doomscroller comes across something transformative

Candice had always been a compulsive doomscroller. She took quiet pride in wiling away the hours, liking and retweeting a torrent of online social and political injustice. 

Drone strikes in Syria? Liked

Extra-judicial killings in Latin America? Liked and re-tweeted

Access to abortion restricted in the southern states? Liked, quote-retweeted: "Shocked and appalled - are we back in the Middle Ages??"

Part of her knew her hashtag activism was shallow, but she had always been too shy to take to the streets. She wasn't quite an agoraphobe, but she'd never liked crowds. She'd always felt judged, observed, silently mocked. Hell, at her prom she'd stuck to the wall and slunk out after they crowned the Prom King and Queen. 

The thought unsettled her, and she let it pass as she compulsively scrolled through her favourite little hell-app. 

An activist who had been tear-gassed was being hauled away by police. Liked, quote-retweeted: "Good girls rarely make history". She tweeted with a satisfied grin. 

Her friends had always laughed at her - the world's greatest keyboard warrior. Her bravado withered when she left her little black mirror behind. She'd always rather turn away than turn heads. But it was all important, she told herself, little building blocks in the movement. The movements. 

Her eyes settled on a strange tweet, a blonde barely-dressed influencer sitting on a bed, letters all in...pink? 

Good girls are soft and shallow.

"Holy shit," she managed through laughter, "misogynistic and cringe in one package? Wow." For some reason she couldn't seem to find any handle for the account. It was a free-floating tweet? Must be a bug?

Her frown deepened when she saw the second tweet. 

Don't you want to be a good girl?

"A good...girl?" she mumbled, words intended to be snidely derisive becoming thick and sluggish on her tongue. The afterburn of the images remained as she blinked. She looked away. Good girl. She looked back. Good girl. The words became the centre of her world.

She only registered the pulsing pink light for a half-second. She only half-heard the thrum and throb of the vapid pop from her speakers.

"W-what's -" 

Words burst onto every screen in her room in staccato bursts. The words, their meaning, soaked her brain. Flooded her synapses. Drowned her in stimuli.

Soft, shallow, 

Her mind reoriented: life was best soft and shallow. Her thoughts were like fleeting dust on the wind, scattered into the ether. She felt something shift, as her body flowed like water. 

Open, vapid, 

Convictions scattered, bowled over by acceptance that she knew nothing. A breathy giggle escaped thickening lips.

Dumb, drip, 

She giggled as she forgot she'd once been smart. She'd never known a question she had the answer to, she realised, as she planted herself on her heels. Saliva dripped from pouting lips, as her pussy kissed her dampening panties.

Empty, wet, 

The drip became a torrent became a flood. She sat back on her heels as her waist shrunk, her hips widened, and her ass plumped - all while her pussy slickened her thighs and soaked her bedsheets. 

Trophy, slut, 

Her breath came in slow, languid inhalations, her tits swelling proudly with each breath, her body reshaped into sensuous curves that demanded - no, commanded - attention.

Toy, whore

She fell back onto the bed, growing into her new body. Her skin bronzed as a life of vapid luxury stretched out before her. 

Candy's plump lips parted as the dopamine rush pulsed through her aching clit, her dripping pussy. 

She knew now her true purpose: soft and shallow, a trophy to be admired, lusted after. All of her worth tied up in her tight pink pussy, her coke-bottle nipples, and her hot little mouth. 

She giggled, spread her legs, and smiled.

"Good girl."