I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be famous and I must say, I’m addicted.

This past Saturday I went to go see Lady Gaga at Nassau Coliseum. I decided (like the attention-seeking, costume-obsessed girl that I am) to go in full-on Gaga Garb. I dressed like Mother Monster, circa the release of her music video “Telephone.”

For all you Gaga noobs, that means I wore caution tape, leather shorts, a leather jacket and Coca-Cola cans rolled into my hair. I also did my eyebrows like Frida Kahlo’s slightly less hairy cousin and wore more face makeup than a sorority girl who got ready while doing shots of Pinnacle Whipped.

The result? A literal mob of Gaga concert-goers were snapping pictures of me walking and asking me to pose for shots with their children. Trips to the bathroom were impossible, as I was stalked by younger Monsters and stopped constantly, again, to have pictures taken.

At one point, myself and a few other overachieving Gaga impersonators were standing in a group taking pictures and there were literally 40 people screaming, “Over here! Now over here! Now put up your monster paws. Take a picture with my kid!”

The flashbulbs in my eyes may have blinded me, but losing my vision never felt so good. Here I was, the same girl who did one pageant at four years old after begging my parents, the same girl whose voice accidentally projects over an entire room, the same drama queen that can’t tell a story without histrionics … and I was a star!

Sure, I was only a star because I looked almost exactly like another star, but I worked my 30 seconds of fame like my celebrity depended on it.

Now, looking back on Lady Gaga’s first album (“The Fame”) and her second album (“The Fame Monster”), both of which are representations of the ups and downs of being a celebrity in popular culture, I can say without the slightest insecurity that I want all of that shit.

Because for the hour and a half it took me to figure out how to roll Coca Cola cans into my hair, I was showered with attention for five hours, stopped and photographed while trying to buy a beer, and had a small group of girls following behind me like I was Justin Bieber.

And just today, a high school friend of mine contacted me on Facebook to say that she was also at the Lady Gaga concert, and that for some strange reason I was in her aunt’s photo album from the concert. I looked at the picture and realized she was one of the people who snapped a shot of me while I was trying to buy a beer. It was like flipping through the pages of Star magazine and seeing my face staring back at me.

It was ego-boostingly awesome and the rash I now have on my face from putting on far too much makeup seems worth it.

For a few hours, and in very few articles of clothing, I saw a path that I would love to continue to walk down — despite the difficulties I faced trying to do something so trivial as take a piss, I felt like I was floating on a cloud of materialism and celebrity. And as sarcastic as that sounds, the drama queen in me wants more.