The first thing you'll notice about me is that I apparently look like Katy Perry.
I'm not bragging. This is not cool. I did not decide this.
Photo: Iman Woods Creative
You cannot tell from my column photo, because it is older and less relevant than MySpace. Running a bad headshot, week after week for years, tickles my self-sadistic sense of humor. And most importantly, no one thinks this picture looks like Katy Perry. Or me, for that matter.
It has actually taken me several years to admit this publicly. My friends have a running tally of how many times per day someone says it -- always the exact same way: "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Katy Perry?" Eight times last Wednesday. There is no good answer to this question. If I say no, I'm lying. If I say yes, I sound cocky. So I usually punch them in the face. In my imagination.
Even writing this, I fear sounding awesome -- like, "Oh darn, I am so hot like a famous singer." But no. That is the exact opposite of what I am saying, and anyone who has ever been compared to a famous person understands how awkward it is. My editor who looks like Conan O'Brien. My other editor who looks like Al Pacino. The reporter who sits next to me who I thought was an intern but now I realize is a staff member who looks like Seth Rogen. In fact, the entire Daily Camera newsroom may actually be a movie set, because everyone looks like someone -- almost.
And that's the problem.
Looking like Katy Perry -- except six years older, six inches shorter and six bra sizes smaller -- sucks. I feel like the tone-deaf Elvis impersonator who dreamed of working as an attorney but instead landed a bartending gig 15 miles outside of Vegas. Because what alleged meth-cooker wants a d-bag with a pompadour and lip twitch to represent him in court? No one, that's who.
I can't even do karaoke anymore. (Insert tears here.) My friends now like to sneak in my name with "I Kissed a Girl." If I protest, it becomes a big deal and draws attention. But the one time I went along with it, the DJ complimented my "impersonation." Like I practice shooting various things (whipped cream, fireworks) out of my breasts in front of the mirror every night.
(It should be noted I got my brother's friend back by signing him up to sing TLC's "Waterfalls.")
It wasn't always like this.
Katy Perry used to not exist, at least not in the limelight, and I used to be some random dark-haired, red-lipped fashion columnist. I've considered changing my style, but it's like Michael Bolton from Office Space. "No way! Why should I change? He's the one who sucks."
I can't even make money off of my act because (despite Mr. Karaoke's opinion) I can't sing, and pop music, in general, makes me break out in hateful hives. When her music comes on at Forever 21 (because that's all they play), I get embarrassed and worry that everyone is looking at me. They are. They think, "Hey, that girl looks like Katy Perry, except not quite as hot."
It's unfair to be compared to someone with way more access to airbrushing and John Mayer, er DJ Diplo, whoever that is. Wait 'til you have a kid, I want to tell her. Let's see what you shoot out of your breasts then.
Until you get a matchy C-section scar, please kindly go dye your hair blonde. Again.
This article originally appeared in the Boulder Daily Camera. Read more articles from the weirdest city in America, Boulder, Colo., here: Only In Boulder.