A Conversation Among Me, Katy Perry, and Sylvia Plath on Birthdays

Editor’s note: You may want to read this and this to get it, but, then again, there’s nothing to really get.

Me: Hi, you guys! Thank you so much for coming today! I just got some really great advice from Taylor Swift and Langston Hughes about being 22, but my 23rd birthday is on Saturday, and… I don’t know, I just really hate birthdays. So I figured I’d talk to you two, since all of our birthdays are so close together! #TeamScorpio! #TeamSexy! #TeamJealousObsessiveSuspiciousManipulativeAndUnyielding!!!! But anyway, birthdays: I just don’t like the attention; I feel like it’s undeserved. Am I being crazy?

Katy Perry, bouncily: I heard you’re feeling nothing’s going right.

Me: It’s not that nothing is going right, I just feel silly for making a big deal out of my birthday. People should celebrate things that they do, not just things that happen to them.

Katy Perry, alluringly: Why don’t you let me stop by? I hope you got a healthy appetite.

Me: I do. The only gifts I asked for were “various cakes.”

Sylvia Plath, in the corner: Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus.

Me: Well, Sylvia, I’m not making them myself. Come on. We can just call Momofuku ahead of time and reserve! Trouble is they have sooo many options, though. It just depends on what topping I want, I guess. What are you guys in the mood for?

Sylvia Plath, quietly: I would not mind if it were bones.

Me: Sylvia. No. No one would eat that.

Sylvia Plath, aggressively: Can you not give it to me?

Me: No! Sylvia! It’s my birthday. Stop trying to make this about you.

Sylvia Plath, reluctantly: I do not mind if it is small.

Me: I AM NOT GETTING YOU A BONE CAKE FOR MY BIRTHDAY.

Sylvia Plath, angrily: I know why you will not give it to me. You are terrified.

Me: Um, yes I am terrified. Do you think the NSA just randomly lost service and didn’t hear that??? They’ll know if I serve bones to my friends and Facebook acquaintances on my birthday. I am not going to the slammer because you have a weird-ass craving.

Sylvia Plath, tearfully: Do not be mean.

Me: I’m sorry, Sylvia. Let’s change the subject: what do you think I should do on the day of my birthday? I just ordered some great sweaters from Ann Taylor Loft, so I’ll need a smart, structured event to go along with my new wardrobe.

Katy Perry, cheerily: We should party all night!

Me: Isn’t that sort of passè, though? And, like, not totally appropriate for the antique grey heather sweater dress I have picked out for the occasion? I was sort of thinking of a nice night in with some crossword puzzles and a bottle of NyQuil.

Katy Perry, excitedly: Pop your confetti! Pop your Pérignon! It’s time to bring out the big balloons!

Me: You really think I own those things?? You think I have a 500 hundred dollar bottle of champagne? Do you want to see my bank account? Like, Katy, I’m turning 23. I’m not a child. I’m poor. I have no time for frivolities. You’re being a little insensitive.

Katy Perry, trying to leave the room: If you wanna dance, if you want it all, you know that I’m the girl that you should call.

Me: I’m sorry, Katy. I’m sorry! You and Sylvia had some great ideas, and I’ll definitely consider having a bone cake and then dancing all night. I’m actually throwing a party, which I’ve never really done before. Do either of you have any tips? Katy, you’re great at parties. What’s something sexy and classy and Ann Taylor LOFT, not Ann Taylor-y that I can do?

Katy Perry, brightening: Let me get you in your birthday suit?

Me: KATY NO

Sylvia Plath, also brightening, in a pale sort of way: Is this the one I am too appear for?

Me: It’d be pretty punk to have a ghost at my birthday, actually. You’re totally free to come. Anyway, I guess I’m being selfish, with all our birthdays so close together and me only wanting to talk about mine. It’s almost Saturday.

Katy Perry, tunefully: The clock is ticking, running out of time.

Me: You’re right, Katy! Maybe I should just not think about it so much and just let it flow, yeah? It’s only one day. I can get through it.

Katy Perry, hopefully: I’ll make it like your birthday everyday.

Me: That’s literally the opposite of what I want, Perry.

Sylvia Plath, wisely: Do not be afraid. You are silver-suited for the occasion.

Me: I don’t know what that means but I’m pretty sure that’s as good as it gets with you, Sylvia, so thank you. And again, I’m really sorry about insulting you with the bone cake.

Sylvia Plath, sneakily: I will only take it and go aside quietly.

Me: No, dude. I’m still not getting one.

Sylvia Plath, defensively: You will not even hear me opening it! No paper crackle! No falling ribbons!

Me: Bone cakes come with ribbons???

Katy Perry, tauntingly: Give you something good to celebrate.

Me: Katy, WHAT is celebratory about this?! You are just mad because I won’t split a bottle of Pérignon with you. ANDRE IS JUST AS GOOD. Sylvia, you’ve actually been totally unhelpful. Do you have anything to actually say about birthdays?

Sylvia Plath, stonily: If it were death, I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes. I would know you were serious. There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday. And the knife not carve, but enter, pure and clean as the cry of a baby, and the universe slide from my side.

Me: This got dark. I’m going home.

Sylvia Plath, cheerily: My god, what a laugh!