Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” is more like a glimpse into a child-like nightmare. The entire album (‘California Gurls,” especially) is like a collaboration of every background track to any Barbie commercial ever made.

“Firework” sounds like a 1984 Aerobics Barbie’s pump-up song. Perry asks if we ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind, and poetically rhymes “boom” and “moon” over and over.

The track is hard to get into. Perhaps it’s the mind-boggling poetry. Perhaps not. Maybe it’s the flashing images of plastic legged high kicks the songs induces.

If she isn’t taking us back to the days of tiny synthetic heels and Velcro on clothes, she catalogues every stupid decision brought on by youth.

In “Last Friday Night,” Perry shares her hazy memory of a ménage-a-trois, not knowing whether she’s covered in hickies or bruises, getting kicked out of bars or who is the stranger in her bed.

The song, the most party-fun bewitching one on the album, makes it spread-easy to understand why young America likes Perry so much.

“Peacock” carries the repeated pleas of Perry to see a young man’s “peacock.” She asks, “Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock. / Don’t be a chicken boy stop actin’ like a biatch.”

She gets what she wants by the end of the song, and it is so beautiful to her, she sheds a tear.