poppityy

[poppityy]

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Fishies to make it all hurt less

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it is so important that you are a little bit ugly. please get comfortable with having unplucked eyebrows and nonexistent jawlines and wrinkles. let your blue hair grow out into an uneven pale green and your clothes be old and mend them and modify them until they’re unique to you. wear lipstick which doesnt compliment your skintone and mismatched outfits which went out of fashion 5 years ago. be a little bit too loud and a little bit too passionate and as weird as you can be because oh my god there is nothing more disturbing to me than perfection. beauty is manufactured and sold to us and you need to realise that you are a fucking animal to live a joyful life I am so serious. you cant obsess over aesthetics forever please just live messily and make your body your home however you please.

if you dont do it for you, do it for all the teenagers who will see u in the street and know that they are not obligated to be attractive

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The longer I exist as a loudly proudly gay man the more I think that cishet men aren't actually attracted to women.

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legitimately my first feminist awakening as a ten year old child was realizing that girls were expected to respect “boy stuff” but boys were never expected to respect “girl stuff”

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All those dreamy, reverse-fantasy ideas about being a writer? The whole “I’ll sit in a cute café with my Moleskine and write a novel that someone magically discovers and turns into a Netflix series”?

Utter, delusional horseshit.

This isn’t a movie.

There’s no background music.

No one’s discovering you by accident.

And writing sure as hell doesn’t feel like floating in a creative haze while the universe rewards your “passion.”

Being a writer means waking up with a knot in your chest, opening a blank page, and wondering if this is the day you finally realize you’ve been wasting your life.

It means sending out pitches or manuscripts and hearing nothing back for months. Or worse… getting a two-sentence rejection that feels like someone punched you through your inbox.

It means seeing someone get a six-figure deal for a book that reads like watered-down oatmeal, while your carefully built, soul-soaked story gets ignored because you don’t have enough followers.

It means people constantly asking, “Are you still writing that thing?” As if writing a book takes a weekend and a scented candle.

The Industry doesn’t care. It will not hand you anything for effort. You can write the most brilliant novel of your generation and it can still get passed over because the market is “oversaturated” or you’re not “fresh enough” or some intern fell asleep reading the first page.

And yet… You’re still here.

Still writing. Still showing up. Still choosing this brutal, chaotic, often unrewarding life because you have to. Because there’s something in you that won’t shut up until you get the words out, even if no one else ever reads them.

That’s not weakness. That’s not delusion. That’s strength—the ugly, persistent, scrappy kind that most people don’t even recognize.

So yeah, the dream version of being a writer is a lie. But the real version?

The one where you keep showing up, with no promise of success, no guarantee of praise, no applause? That’s the kind of story worth living.

Please, don’t stop. Never.

Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s pretty. But because it’s yours.

And no industry, algorithm, or trend gets to take that away from you.

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When I was a child, every well-meaning adult with a nine-to-five soul and a dried-up imagination told me that being a writer wasn’t a “real job.”

“You’re just a little girl with big words,” they said. “Books don’t pay the bills.”

As if paying bills was the most thrilling thing a person could live for.

I never understood why grown-ups were so committed to shoving a fire extinguisher down the throat of a kid who just wanted to tell stories.

I kept wondering, why is it so threatening for a little girl to believe her words could matter?

Now I know why.

Because they never had a dream of their own.

And when you’ve never had one or gave yours up a long time ago, it’s easier to mock someone else’s.

It’s easier to roll your eyes at someone chasing stars when you’ve chosen to stay face-down in the dirt.

And still… I write. Not because I was told I couldn’t. But because I had to.

Because I promised that little girl I’d keep going, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

[poppityy]

when the lyrics you've been mishearing are more clever than what's actually in the song

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beginning to suspect that if I ever want to have a published novel I will have to actually write a novel, which is frankly ghoulish

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*thinks up an idea for a silly quick piece* okay haha lets whip something up real quick

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

*idea gets more complicated*

oh no

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Ppl who had time for romance in high school we are so different. i was busy fighting for my life in my head

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having a resting bitchface is so funny because i'll be doing something relaxing, and really enjoying myself and my face will look like this

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No more feeling suicidal there are others that deserve to die more ❤️

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my hidden talents include romanticising everything, oversharing, crying, and overthinking 

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This pride we have GOT to stop making fun of bi women with boyfriends btw . I’m so so serious .

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Being a young adult is so strange. You enter a coffee shop. The 20 year old girl waiting behind you cried all night because she just came to a new city for university and she feels so alone. That 27 year old guy over there works a job he is overqualified for, he lives with his parents and wants to move out but doesn't know what to do about it. That one 24 year old dude already has a car, a house, and a job waiting for him once he graduates thanks to his dad's connections. The 26 year old barista couldn't complete his higher education because he has to work and take care of his family. The 28 year old girl sitting next to you has no friends to go out with so she is texting her mother. That couple (both 25 years old) are married and the girl is pregnant. The 29 year old writing something on her laptop has realized that she chose the wrong major so she is trying to start all over. We are not alone in this, but we are actually so alone. Do you feel me