Highlight of My Lowlife

I was bored, scrolling through Vevo watching music videos, and it was all garbage. One trash thing after another. Then That Poppy’s Lowlife came on. The video’s cheap—some Kyary Pamyu Pamyu knockoff with none of the actual vision, just the surface-level weirdness. Demonic makeup, an old guy in a wheelchair, shock value with no point.

I would’ve closed it out in seconds if the hook hadn’t already gotten stuck in my head. That relentless reggae beat. Baby you’re the highlight of my lowlife, sung by this girl styled to look fifteen but she’s probably twenty-five, delivered in a voice that’s completely unbothered.

They never tell you That Poppy’s actual age. It’s intentional. The chaotic clothes, the doll eyes, the constructed image—everything is designed so you can’t quite figure out what you’re looking at, which is exactly the appeal. She lives in that space where age and innocence blur together, manufactured and calculated.

Baby you’re the highlight of my lowlife. Dumb hook. It shouldn’t work. But it does. Now everyone’s singing it.