I. Me. Myself. Moi, and moi, and did I mention moi?

I was perusing through my library's dog-eared copy of Gone With The Wind.
Scarlett O'Hara is somebody I can totally relate to. No, I'm nothing like her, except that we both don't bullshit, unless it's to our advantage.
I can relate more to Margaret Mitchell. It's liberating to create a literary character and pour all your angst into her.
Ayn Rand glamourized Selfishness (yes, I will call it that). It's called "looking out for yourself" in psychiatrist jargon. It doesn't take Standard Chartered or whatever mutual funds people to figure out why there's an increase in indulge-yourself-types spas.
The species of Sati-Savithris died out in the technicolour celluloid of the Fifties. And 'burn the bra!' women are now considered sad individuals with suspicious sexuality.
The bony boss-bitch in Androgynous Chanel pantsuits is no longer a huge sex symbol. Real women, who're aware of their femininity, allow chivalry, empathetic, brainy and not clingy are. Very Elizabeth Bennett meets Angeline Jolie. I'm not making this up; I have it on good authority.

Back when I was Miss Goody-two-shoes ('tattletale prig,' my cousin reminds me often now), I did a lot of moral policing. (I later went on to become the grammar police. I'm neither any more.)
My cousins, friends and neighbours ostracized me, because I was a little bit of a precocious showoff. Okay. Not just a little bit.
To pick a random example.
Moral Instructions class. Yes. You read right.
Grade 11. (2003)

Professor: Today, we'll discuss boys. (Class oohs in eager anticipation). The question I put forth is, is it okay to talk to boys socially?
The first victim is unfortunately me. (Class oohs louder).
CL: Um. Actually it's okaaay... but I'm an orthodox muslim girl, so I'd rather not.
(Class boos loudly.)
I even managed to make the MI professor feel like an immoral prat.

A friend reminded me of this today. Whilst I was releasing my inner Ghetto girl dancing to Ginuwine/Kellis/the like. And doing mock tequila shots.