I was known as the actress. I was also known as Hermione, Smart Ass, That Girl, and many other names I don't actually know. I was a mysterious figure, I reckon, a Stranger who just walked in and took the school by hold. Who, in her quiet ways, doing nothing at all but simply what she must, made the entire school stop and look up at her, take notice, and go, "Who's that girl?"

I understand they were envious of me. I knew it even then, it wasn't hard to make out the toxic green flames flashing in their eyes. Kym, for one, made it very clear her adolation for me, going so far as to study my habits and imitate my every move. Annoying, to say the least. Of course, it wasn't hard to understand exactly why she went to such desperate measures. Probably in their eyes, I was perfect, I had it all: I constantly topped the cohort and scored, if not the highest on every test, in the Top 3. Even the most mundane of tests- Home Economics -was not overlooked by me. ...I had the lead role in the big musical that the Principal was constanly abuzz about. I acted pretty often- actually, always -in other smaller plays. ...I was rich. People got to know, somehow. ...I was slim. I almost made it seem effortless. Naturally, and I wonder why I even bother mentioning this, the teachers loved me.

I think, however, that more than that, I was full of myself. Now, when I say that, I don't mean to say that I was arrogant or anything of that sort, in fact, far from it. But I knew who I was. I was full of the flavour of Me. I knew who I was and my actions reflected that. A lot of people are bendable, flexi, almost non-existant. It's why you see them so easily taken in by the media, celebrities, 'idols' and other influences. A lot of people don't really know who they are. Style, as I see it, is a personal expression of oneself. It's one's projection of oneself unto the world, a statement that proclaims: This is me. People flit too easily from trend to trend, they all look the same. Rebonded hair, skinny jeans, long tees, converse, big bangles, and a shiny, glam handbag. That's not style. That's, "That's the latest trend so I must follow it and then hopefully I will look really good, because that's the only way to look really good, isn't it? I don't actually know, but if the celebrities and the designers and the magazines say so..."

Confidence is the only thing that people are actually envious of. That you know who you are and you're marking the world with your scent. There is a difference between self-confidence and merely Confidence in terms of identity and flavour. Self-confidence is believing in yourself, that you can indeed achieve something. Confidence is having an identity that is uniquely yours- and knowing it -and unashamedly doing what you must, what you want, without care for what the world thinks of you. This of course only pisses people of because you're so strongly full of yourself and they...not. They have not the courage to rise up within themselves, and the strength to do what you do and stand on their own. Because truly, you're not jealous of me planting my feet at No. 1. Neither are you jealous that I can act. You're jealous because I dare to pursue and do what I want, and I really don't care what you think.

strong and full-passioned, Objection (tango) by Shakira

They come out in search of some food, I suppose, or other supplies they need. They have gross appetites, but then, I suppose, I eat honey, and my phlegm must be sugar-loaded. This time, it was a strand of hair and a flake of my scalp I purposely set on my table. There were two of them, and they weaved in and out the strand and looked around them until they finally seemed to notice the mote of dandruff. The one of them excitedly picked it up, glad to have come upon such a treasure, there was a tacit understanding that he would bring it back to the clan, while the other would have a further look around for more. I watched him on his way, feelers holding on dearly to such precious material, when the significance of his journey suddenly burned in my head- encouragement for the coming back of more. No, no, this human could not have that, it simply would not do, he had to be stopped. Unthinkingly, I pressed my finger down on his beaded body, and flattened out his small life between my forefinger and thumb. When I was sure the job was complete, I nonchalantly rubbed him off my skin. His comrade, I noticed, was frantic with terror. The dead body had dropped down right in front of his face.

listen to Concerning Hobbits, Howard Shore