I'm a bitch. I'm materialistic. Shallow. Blunt. Rude. Slytherin.

All of those words hurled my way with enough venom that I can actually feel the hope that I'll crumble. That they will be the ones to finally see me cry, the way, I'm sure, that I have made them cry.

The problem there is that I simply: Do. Not. Care.

My best friend in the world recently looked me in the eyes and said, "You are the meanest bitch I have ever met. And coming from me, that's saying something. I mean really, you know who my family is."

And you wanna know how I reacted?

I gave my signature You're Absolutely Beneath the Dirt on My Shoes️ head-to-toe scrutinizing look. And then I made eye contact and replied, "Thank you! I really needed to hear that, I thought I was going soft."

Because guess what?! I am a bitch! I know it. I actively choose it. I enjoy this lifestyle choice. It defines who I am as a person.

Well, that and killer shoes.

You might be inclined to ask, "Why can't you be nicer?"

Listen, I hear you. I get it. I'm making people uncomfortable. I'm hurting people's feelings. Whatever, I don't particularly care.

My counter question to you is: "How many people, our age, do you know that are truly happy with who they are?"

Honestly, I'm positively blissful with who I am as a person.

You never have to guess what I'm feeling. I'm going to tell you the truth. And if you cross me, I'm going to point out every single flaw you have in front of the biggest crowd that I have at my disposal. Is that a little over-dramatic? Maybe. But like I said, I'm happy with me.

Next you might ask, "How did you become this?"

Well, take a seat, bitch. We'll be here a while.

Most children grow up with a loving mother and father, maybe a sibling too. With friends and family around them as they grow. They have structure. They have fun. They have rules. They have happiness. They socialize with children their age and learn how to navigate through life based on experience and the experience of those around them.

My childhood was a little different.

I was raised by Fendi. Yes, she's a House Elf. Yes, she was named after the Muggle designers.

My mother has failed me in many ways, fashion education was not one of them.

I was taught early on that appearance matters. My mother never saw me dirty. I was always cleaned up before I was presented to her and father. From the age of three up until my sixteenth birthday I was constantly ready for inspection. On the evenings that my parents were home and not hosting a party, I was presented to them at six o'clock precisely in the parlor. I was to stand exactly in the middle of the rug, pause and count to ten in my head, and then slowly spin in a circle so that they could see all of me.

I was never to have chipped nails or mussed up hair. Wrinkles do not exist in my household. Smiling is frowned upon. Acne is not allowed. I could never be exuberant or extravagant.

Silent and stoic was the name of the game and I was the sole involuntary contestant.

After I made it full circle, I was then expected to stand there while my mother, and occasionally my father, told me what could be improved on. Anything was up for discussion.

While walking in there I gave too much attitude. Maybe I didn't give enough attitude. I need to remember my place. I am better than everyone. I am not better than my parents. Perhaps I blushed while they told me to lose half a stone? Well, now I'm being berated for blushing. You see, being better than everyone else also requires you to not show emotion. Emotions are less than and I am not less than.

So, while you were outside climbing trees and generally being a child, I was on a rigorous schedule.

Poise was cultivated in me daily.

My walking, writing, speaking, gesturing, and dressing was constantly corrected.

My room was always tidy, my closet was exact, my bathroom was spotless.

Manners were instilled early and expounded on as I grew.

My "free time" was only truly free on my sixteenth birthday. At that point in time I was expected to start looking for a husband. And if I need to whore myself around a little to "try the merchandise", as my mother put it oh-so-lovingly, then no harm done. As long as I don't shame my family in any way, this includes getting pregnant, then I am allowed free reign.

So tell me, is that reason enough to be who I am? Was that sufficient? Or should I be meek? And mild? And kind? And blah blah blah. Should I have overcome my grueling childhood to become a shoulder to cry on?

I don't think so. I'm not meek or mild. I will never be.

I was created with the sole purpose of being better than you. I was not loved. I was not cherished. I was not nurtured to adulthood.

I was broken down and built back up the right way. And if I made a mistake, if I failed at anything, my spirit was broken again. Over and over until I no longer made mistakes that were worth their attention. Until I became something to be proud of.

You may not like me. That's fine. I'm not overly fond of you either.

But when you call me a bitch or snidely throw my Slytherin background in my face, I think you should know you're not hurting me.

I'm a bitch and I'm proud.

I was forged under the fire of my father's gaze and the hammering of my mother's spite.

I am Pansy Fucking Parkinson.