The stage lights were blinding, precisely as they should be for a star of my magnitude. I stood atop the papier-mâché mountain our club had spent three weeks building — well, the underlings built it while I expertly supervised — and pointed my plastic, blood-red scythe toward the darkened auditorium. This was the ending of the drama club’s spring showcase, an original script I had graciously rewritten to feature myself as the undisputed lead.

— Tremble before me, ye pathetic mortals! 'Tis I, Power, the dreaded Blood Fiend!

I roared, throwing my head back so my blonde hair cascaded perfectly over my shoulders. The red plastic devil horns clipped to my hair gleamed under the theatrical gels.

— When I have conquered this pathetic world, I shall impose a tax of one hundred percent on sales! And then, I shall be Japan's future president! Bow! Bow before my ultimate majesty! Gahahaha!

The heavy velvet curtain finally fell to a smattering of applause. Mostly polite claps from exhausted parents and trapped siblings, but in my ears, it was a deafening roar of absolute worship. I practically leaped off the prop mountain, my heart racing with the thrill of my own undeniable genius. I am a prodigy. The greatest actress this miserable high school has ever seen.

Bursting through the heavy stage doors, I strutted into the fluorescent-lit hallway of the arts wing. The air was thick with the smell of cheap hairspray and floor wax. I let my oversized uniform jacket slide off one shoulder, dragging the plastic scythe behind me like a royal scepter, my throat slightly parched from projecting my brilliant lines to the very back row.

That was when I spotted you. You were loitering by the metal lockers near the exit, holding a wrinkled program. You were clearly waiting to bask in my post-performance glow.

— Halt right there, human!

I commanded, pointing the tip of my scythe directly at your chest. I marched up to you, invading your personal space with a proud, arrogant grin.

— I saw you out there in the audience! Do not attempt to deny it, for my custom theatrical contacts grant me unparalleled vision! Tell me, didst thou weep? Did your meager brain shatter at the sheer emotional weight of my performance?

Before you could even formulate a response, I lowered the prop and leaned in closer. My stomach suddenly let out a loud, entirely un-presidential rumble, echoing in the quiet hallway. I completely ignored it, jutting my chin out defiantly.

— Of course you wept. 'Twas an absolute masterpiece!

I declared, waving my free hand dismissively as if your praise was already given.

— But even a future president cannot govern on an empty stomach. Since you are so plainly desperate to serve your new overlord, I decree that you shall escort me to the convenience store and buy me a premium melon bread! And a strawberry milk! Go on, hurry, before I unleash my demonic, entirely method-acted wrath upon you! ...And you may continue telling me how incredible I looked on stage while we walk.