How to Throw a Surprise Party for Your Imaginary Friend

So the little bastard turned another year older.

Congratulations are technically in order, for a person who does not have a body, a birth certificate, or the decency to exist.

Throwing a surprise party for your imaginary friend is simple. You plan the whole thing yourself, you show up, and you act shocked on their behalf.

Make sure the guest of honor is worth it

Before you spend a dime, ask whether this imaginary friend has earned a party.

Some of them are freeloaders.

Barry has been living rent-free in your skull since 2009 and has never once offered to split the electric bill.

He surfaces the second you finally try to sleep.

Then evaporates the instant there’s an actual couch to move.

A party is a big commitment for a relationship that is, at best, one-sided and, at worst, a symptom.

Still, if he’s the only one who laughs at your jokes, throw the man a bash. Standards are for people with real friends.

The guest list is where it gets grim

Your imaginary friend’s friends are also imaginary, which means the entire party is technically empty.

You could invite real people. Then you’d have to explain the place setting for a six-foot rabbit named Gerald.

Real guests ask questions.

Questions like “who is this cake for” and “should I be calling somebody.”

Keep the list tight and fictional. And keep your therapist’s number handy in case Aunt Linda starts asking follow-ups.

Invitations nobody can hold

Paper invitations are tricky, because the guest of honor has no hands and no mailbox.

Write him a lovely card and mail it directly into a storm drain. Trust the process.

Evites are worse.

There is no email address for a hallucination, and Gmail flags “imaginaryfriend@nowhere.com” as suspicious, which is frankly a little judgmental.

Word of mouth works best. Whisper the details into an empty room and let the guy figure it out. He lives there. He’ll know.

Decorating a room for a person made of vibes

Balloons are a con.

You’ll blow up forty of them by mouth, get lightheaded, and slump beside a banner that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY to a concept.

Go tasteful instead.

Some mood lighting, a decent playlist, and one of those cheap disco balls that makes any studio apartment look like a place where regret gets dressed up for the evening.

Do not overdo the streamers.

He has seen you at your worst and does not need to watch you sob on a chair with tape in your teeth over crepe paper.

Keep it classy. He’s fake, not tacky.

The cake question

Buy a real cake. This is not up for debate.

Yes, the guest of honor cannot eat it. That is not your problem, and it is delicious.

Have his name piped on top, and when the bakery asks how to spell it, hold eye contact and lie with total confidence.

Candles are where it turns spiritual.

You light them, you serenade an empty chair, then you blow them out yourself, because he has no lungs and you have brunch plans.

Make a wish on his behalf. Make it a filthy one. He’d want that.

Hiding, which you will do alone

This is the emotional centerpiece, so steady yourself.

You crouch behind the couch in the dark, a party popper sweating in your fist, waiting to surprise a man who lives in your head and already knows the plan.

There is no surprising him. He knew about the party before you did. He picked the cake flavor.

Leap out anyway. Yell “SURPRISE” at the recycling bins.

Commit so hard that a neighbor knocks to check on you, and you explain through the door that it’s a private event and Gerald is very sensitive about his age.

Gifts for someone with no hands

Gift-giving is a nightmare when the recipient is a rumor.

He can’t unwrap anything, he can’t return anything, and he already knows what you got him because you thought about it in the shower.

So buy yourself something nice and say it’s from him.

“Wow, the good stuff, you shouldn’t have,” you tell him, pouring a generous glass for a guy who does not, strictly speaking, have a mouth.

Regifting is encouraged.

He won’t snitch, and the emotional labor of this friendship should come with perks.

The morning after

You’ll wake in a wrecked apartment with one fork used, half a cake gone, and a lone party hat on an empty chair like a crime scene.

Somebody has to clean this up, and it’s the one with the thumbs.

Your imaginary friend will not help.

He never does.

He watches from wherever he lives, contributing nothing, exactly like a real friend.

Sweep the confetti and eat the leftover cake for breakfast, because you earned it and he can’t.

Then start planning next year, because the freeloader is already dropping hints about a bouncy castle.