I have a confession to make. I have a blue wig in my closet. I’ve showed up––rather, made an appearance––at a party with Pauly D on my arm. Yes, the quiet girl some think is named Daniel Kinks (that pronunciation is wrong by the way) who sits in the back of the class and––gasp––doesn’t have a Facebook actually has a secret side to her.

I could allude to this secret life with a long string of cheesy puns, such as “It was a ‘Teenage Dream’ of mine to be one of the ‘California Gurls’ instead of ‘One of the Boys’ feeling ‘Hot n Cold’ ‘Thinking of You’ and realizing shortly after ‘Waking Up in Vegas’ ‘Last Friday Night’ that my life was ‘Not Like the Movies,”’ but now that would just be showing off.

If you don’t know the pop star I’m not-so-subtly alluding to, I’ll just tell you now, I’ve lost all respect for you––you have no knowledge of pop culture. I mean, that’s fine, I subscribe to “Entertainment Weekly,” so I can see how I have an advantage.

It all started at my friend’s Halloween party. Earlier that day, one hesitant party-goer (who is a bit pretentious) asked if anyone was wearing costumes, flippantly remarking “Yeah, like Danielle’s going to wear a costume.” I was offended, who did he think I was, the good-girl wallflower who didn’t even go to prom? I digress. Still, I proved him wrong; in fact, he even didn’t recognize me that night.

In her signature retro short skirt, blue wig, hair bow and fake lashes, Katy Perry made her appearance at a party in the ever-hoppin’ Plymouth, Minnesota. It was too bad TMZ didn’t get tipped off––this had to be the biggest party since Justin Bieber’s 12th (come on, there’s no way he’s 16) birthday party. Schmoozing with Perry around the campfire was “Jersey Shore”’s own Pauly D, two Ke$has (as if one wasn’t enough), Marilyn Monroe, and the man whose face is plastered on every tween girl and desperate divorceé’s wall: Edward Cullen.

Between some subtle fist-pumping with Pauly, I received multiple second glances, a few shocked “Is that Danielle?”s and lots of pictures… pictures that ended up on Facebook and therefore, naturally, became the topic of discussion the next day at school.

I was a little startled when my Facebook pop-star-costume predecessor congratulated me on my get-up; I couldn’t be tagged in any of the photos, but apparently word spreads fast. I guess you truly know you’ve achieved a certain degree of notoriety when your teacher comes up to you at school cheering “California Gurls!”

But that day has come and gone. The blue wig is put away, the pound of eye makeup has finally worn off after four months, and the last time I fist-pumped was… I don’t want to talk about it. And to those of you who’ve seen me in the hallways for six years and still don’t know my name, who ask me, “Oh, are you visiting? How do you like BSM?” and think I am a boring, socially inept, private goody-two-shoes, you’ve got only one thing right about me: I’m a mystery. I’m no Miley Cyrus, I don’t have the best of both worlds––I’m not Katy Perry, but I’m certainly not Daniel Kinks either.