I want to be friends with Katy Perry. At least I think I want to be friends with Katy Perry. I have always (mostly secretly) enjoyed some of the pop star's hits, but I could never allow myself to completely embrace her because, while she seems fun, the stage persona she presents is also completely ridiculous. She's a sexed-up Candy Land figurine; she plays dumb about the arguably racist and homophobic things she says and sings while also trying to pander to tweens with her heartfelt "be yourself" anthems. You can't have it both ways, Katy!
But despite the flaws, I'll admit that I had a great time watching her perform during her Prismatic Tour earlier this summer. She changed costumes nearly a dozen times. She took selfies with the audience, had a pizza delivered to some fans in the front row, and rode a giant mechanical horse. She sat in an inflatable convertible while an inflatable poo emoji larger than my apartment danced over her head, and she flew through the air while the world's largest balloon drop softly fell all around her. There were fireworks (of course) and an acoustic guitar covered in a bajillion crystals—the entire two-hour performance was shiny and beautiful and about as real as Joan Rivers's face. At one point, she sang her double-entendre-filled song "Birthday" to a preteen as the two sat atop a giant cake. "That's not appropriate," I thought as Katy sang about wanting to "get you in your birthday suit."
But it made me wonder: What would it be like having Katy Perry as a BFF? Would I get to meet Rihanna? Would she buy me extravagant presents? Would she comfort me during life's shitter moments? What Would Katy Perry Do? I'm sure it would be messy, hilarious, and annoying, but at least it would be entertaining.
Here's what it might be like if Katy Perry were your best friend.
Scenario: Your boyfriend dumps you.
WWKPD?: The doorbell rings. As you open the door, Katy grabs your arm, pulls you toward her, and yells out "Spa day!" You're led to a limo with a shirtless beefhunk for a driver, and she begins to shit-talk the boyfriend you are still very much in love with. "He was so gay, did you see the cardigans he wore? SO GAY." "Katy, that's not really appropr..." "We're here!" Katy orders a smorgasbord of spa treatments for both of you—hot stone massages, body wraps, some kind of facial involving diamonds and lasers, and manicures. She holds up her finished ornate fingernails and exclaims, "Japanese-y!" "Katy, I don't think that's the word you're..." but she's already halfway out the door. The manicurists stare you down, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat. "She has... a condition..." you mumble as you duck out. Back at the limo, Katy pops out of the sunroof and shouts "KARAOKE!" while holding a spewing bottle of champagne that costs more than a Prius. You insist that you'd rather go home, but Katy does not hear you. At the bar, you do renditions of her songs "Hot N Cold" and "Ur So Gay." She tries to get you to make out with the bartender, who has explained five times already that (a) he's actually gay and (b) he no longer wants to be treated as a sexual object by Katy Perry. "Kiss him! Kiss him!" she loudly chants, banging her fists on the table as drinks spill and rattle. "Katy, I don't think..." "Oh, he doesn't care," she says, witlessly smiling and downing a shot of tequila. "You don't care, right?" As he opens his mouth to protest, Katy says: "See? He doesn't care. He likes it!" Katy bends over the bar table and kisses you right on the mouth. It tastes like booze and teeth-whitening strips. She barfs in your lap on the ride home.
Scenario: You're moving across town.
WWKPD?: Katy is the best kind of friend to have while moving—Katy is rich. At first it seems like such a kind gesture when she shows up with an army of movers to handle everything, but Miss Perry, as usual, has ulterior motives. As soon as the last box is plucked from the floor, Katy's on the phone inviting all her friends over to your empty apartment. Rihanna is there, and so is Drake. Some fire dancers show up. Katy maniacally laughs, splashes neon paint all over the walls, turns on a bunch of black lights, and cranks her own party jams "Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)" and "This Is How We Do." Somehow, there is bottle service and people are swinging from a chandelier that was not there before. The floor starts to cave in with the weight of hundreds of people pogoing, the cops show up but no one cares, and it's fucking awwwwwe-some. The next thing you know, the rising sun is waking you from a comatose-like slumber. You wipe crusty neon paint out of your eyes and cough up a wad of snot and glitter. Drake is sitting on the floor next to you. "Oh, hi," he says, sniffling. Tears fill his eyes. "It's just allergies. I'm not crying, I swear. Is this your place? It's nice." He asks if you want to go get chocolate-chip pancakes. You do not get your deposit back.
Scenario: Your cat dies.
WWKPD?: Katy shows up at your house with a Ouija board and her cat, Kitty Purry, insisting the three of you try to summon your dead pet's spirit. Ignoring the tears running down your face and the insistence that you just want to be left alone, Katy forces her way through the door, pours you both some red wine in comically large wine glasses (you know, like the kind they sell in SkyMall that hold the whole bottle), and starts setting up the table. She spreads out a sparkly tablecloth covered in Swarovski crystals. She arranges her collection of Hello Kitty knickknacks, cans of tuna, and jars of caviar all around. She ties a little witch hat onto Kitty Purry, lights dozens of candles, draws whiskers on both of your faces with some Guerlain eyeliner (which is about $40 a pop, BTW), and starts meowing and giggling and reciting lines from Hocus Pocus. It doesn't make you feel better, of course, but it's a decent distraction from crying at the sight of the now-useless litter box you can't bring yourself to throw away.
Scenario: Your little brother's 12th birthday party.
WWKPD?: With an admittedly endearing appreciation for candy, cartoons, and bright colors, Katy is both the best and the worst thing to happen to your little brother's birthday party. When she offers to help out, you ask her to simply bring plastic cups and a few two-liter bottles of soda. On the day of the party, Katy is MIA until it's time to open presents. Just as you've written her off, her bodyguard presses play on a boom box and rolls out a birthday cake the size of a baby elephant that's decorated with oversize gumdrops, lollipops, and little Dr. Seussian trees made of cotton candy. Everyone oohs and aahs, some small fireworks go off, and Katy jumps out of the cake in a garish, glittery bodysuit complete with a sequined birthday-cake patch sewn over her crotch. Buttercream flies into your grandmother's face. Katy grabs your little brother, puts him on a plastic golden throne, and begins to serenade him with "Birthday." "So let me get you in your birthday suit/It's time to bring out the big, big, big, big balloons," she croons, while inflatable emoji balloons fit for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade are danced around her. Afterward, all the kids continue to complain that there's nothing but water to drink; Katy forgot the soda.