You wake up, not to your typical alarm clock at the typical time, but at 5 AM to a blaring, annoying sound that sounds vaguely like Lord Disick’s “It’s me, Todd Kraines!” voice. It’s your trusty app, alerting you that your day as a minor celebrity has begun. You are given three options:
- Catch a plane from Los Angeles to Dallas, where you have a minor appearance at a mall’s Perfumania.
- Hit a quick session with your exorbitantly paid trainer, who demands you bust out 10,000 squats in an hour, all the while reminding you that anacondas don’t want none unless you got buns, hon.*
- Spend an hour and 30 minutes trying to decide on what to wear out of your closet of rented and borrowed-but-conveniently-forgot-to-return designer goods, 25 minutes of which is spent in a reverie of how, one day, you will just be gifted all of these duds and party with designers on yachts for their birthdays.
*If you choose this option, you’re docked a few energy points because the ghost of Nicki Minaj comes by and you have to face a bonus Walk-Off challenge, wherein you lose because you only have Blue Steel and she is Hansel and therefore so hot right now.
The app then locks you out for whatever amount of time is the equivalent in game world (I assume it’s a 3:1 ratio for real life, because if you really had to undergo an hour and a half without this game, I assume you’d get the withdrawal shakes). Alternatively, you can pay a nominal fee to not be locked out, which is where part of the $700,000 a day in profits is coming from.
You then have to play a daily round of Texts With Prospective Baby Daddies™, wherein you answer a series of confusingly coded text messages in your increasingly desperate attempt to find a boyfriend. The game continues to remind you that the point here is as follows:
Because girrrlll, don’t we all? (#preach)
Make one false move, and the prospective dreamboat NFL player you’ve been trying to snag, Dream Date-style, will be swapped out for a douchetastic second-rate NBA player (I know, that sounds contradictory, but it’s possible). You then receive 50 Lord-Disick-Is-Judging-You Points™, and are forced to either spend the equivalent of 72 minutes thinking about your life choices (or fork over more cash to just get the whole thing swept under the rug).
Other possible ways to incur Lord-Disick-Is-Judging-You Points™:
- Taking care of nieces, nephews, or friends’/glam squad’s children beyond the requisite Instagram selfie to harvest the “aww, baby!” likes.
- Wearing last season’s accessories.
- Spending less than $3,750 on any one ensemble.
- Ensemble repeating.
- Referring to an “ensemble” as a pedestrian “outfit.”
- Talking to or making eye contact with anyone outside of your family, or whom you directly employ.
- Bailing on your Barry’s Boot Camp session.
- Eating carbs.
- Flying commercial.
Of course, one of the biggest hurdles of the game is to accrue fans, and make your way from the D-list to the very coveted A-list. There are any number of tasks you can complete in order to work your way up the celebrity ladder, up to and including: shooting magazine covers; tipping paparazzi off to where you’ll be that day so they know to show up; making frenemies with more famous people so that their star power rubs off on you; spreading rumors that you’re dating someone; frolicking on the beach in a bikini; landing strangely un-self-aware cameos in TV shows and movies; booking appearances at night clubs, restaurants, and malls the world over; having an ex “reveal all” to a tabloid; penning unsolicited op-eds on either your blog or in newspapers that are usually reputable but are struggling to get that pop culture edge; getting bangs, or going blonde.
Each Get Famous Quick!™ task depletes you of precious Energy points, which is shown in a little power strip bar at the very top corner of your phone screen. If you use up all your energy, you’re blocked from the game for 24 hours, in what in-game tabloids report is a stint in the hospital because you are being treated “for exhaustion.” You then return to the game as Mariah Carey, and have to live out the rest of your e-life trying to stay relevant in the wildest of ways. You will never be more than B-list ever again, but that’s okay because everyone else imagines whatever drugs you are on sure seem to be making you real happy.
This fate can be avoided, however by either paying another nominal fee, or by making sure you’re getting tons of rest and relaxation on one of your 50 vacations that year. Be sure to take lots of Instagram photos! It’s like that old Tao-ist expression goes: if you take a vacation to a beach in Mexico and don’t photograph yourself in a bikini, did you even vacation?
The game repeats ad nauseam. Every day, you’re given the opportunity to promote a new product on a roulette wheel of choices. They’re usually beauty products or clothes, most of which have your name slapped on them haphazardly, but every once in a while, you have to make the big life decisions, such as:
Is posing for a Subway sandwich too pedestrian, or is it proof that you’re an every-girl? Do you want to be an every-girl? Are people going to see you posing with a footlong sandwich and accuse you of A) eating carbs (shock and dismay); or B) allude to something else that is a foot long, which ew, gross, despite your sex appeal, and skimpy outfits, you’d never actually say anything vulgar. You must remain a paradox.
Life is tough sometimes.
Other possible pitfalls that can occur during the game, thus derailing your quest for the A-list:
- Someone spends tons of money on plastic surgery to look like you, thereby tarnishing your image.
- Somebody accuses you of plastic surgery.
- You piss off a designer when you forget what their name is on the red carpet (MAJOR FAUX PAS!)
- You miss your flight to Paris and miss a very important appearance.
- Your luggage does not arrive with you even though you flew private, which, WTF.
- Your body does not bounce back as quickly as you thought it would post-baby.
- You’re accused of using Photoshop on an Instagram pic.
- Your Twitter is hacked, which actually sends out a virus to your REAL phone, and you have to pay $200 more to get it replaced.
- You get a zit.
- The trendy restaurant you decided to dine at that night for peak paparazzi exposure won’t accommodate for your diet.
- Rihanna begins to play the game, wins everything, and beats you.
- Your sister begins to play the game, wins everything, and beats you. And you’re just sitting there, seething, because, like, without you, she’d be nothing.
Regardless, the only way to really win the game is to finally answer all of the questions in the daily Texts With Prospective Baby Daddies™ (I assume it’s either some sort of “rosebud” code or “up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, A, B, A, B” combo) and shack up with a mega-mogul who is even more controversial, famous, and polarizing than you will ever be. The final screen is the following video, except your digital avatar rides off into the sunset with your Baby Daddy™.
On a motorcycle.
Oh, and if you even once mention Beyoncé, the game deletes itself from your phone.