Not famous – nope, have done nothing of worth

Not rich – Hmmmmm, struggle to buy groceries

Not particularly good looking – still have own boobs, cellulite, and occasional whisker

Not sports star- can’t even watch it on TV

“Great” thought Paris, “haven’t got a shit show in hell, basically”

She shut down the computer, wandered into the kitchen and poured herself yet another glass of Chateau de Crap. Sipping as delicately as a dehydrated Bedouin, Paris asked herself the serious question. Capital S, capital Q.

“Is it worth it”.

The little voices in her head immediately began replying…..worrying really, when you thought about it. Isn’t that called borderline personality disorder? All vying for attention, she had to do some serious refereeing. The most vocal of course, was Ego. Ego immediately glossed over reality with a dulcet golden syrupy “Of course it is, you’re amazing”. It was how Paris imagined it would sound if George Clooney was speaking directly at her, over a candle lit dinner – after the oysters. Pure heaven, however as likely as evading her council rates and keeping her house or losing her muffin top in a week without exercise, or booze.

The other voices that managed to get a word in were slightly more realistic, damn them. The whiney arsed voice of Reason piped up next – God, how Paris hated this one. “Well really” it shrieked “Will you for the love of all that’s holy, finally get OVER it!!!” This was in fact the same voice that invariably drowned out all others eventually. Paris was as used to its mutterings as she was the effects of gravity on her face. It didn’t matter how much you wished it wasn’t there, sorry honey – it was a fact of life.

The more timid members of her brain were also making noises. There was Ever Hopeful, who came in really handy in a change room – it was the optimistic voice that thought that perhaps sizing’s had changed, and that there was still a chance that Paris could squeeze her ample thighs into that skirt, or that maybe, if she were nice enough, she would be universally loved. Paris generally dismissed her services after Reason and Ego had beaten her into a bloody pulp somewhere before midday, and Common Sense took over.

Common Sense was by far, the hardest to ignore – all the voices had their attractions – however, they also all had their agenda’s. Common Sense unfortunately was as pure as triple distilled vodka, and had the same painful after effects.
Paris drained her glass, rinsed it and left it upended on the dish drainer. She looked around the kitchen, decided that she would leave it all for the morning, and switched off the lights.

Making her way to bedroom, Common Sense was making headway with Reason, something that was unusual. Common Sense was dealing with numbers.
Paris was not a numbers person. She struggled with balancing a cheque book. She could be persuaded that $300 for a dress was a bargain. She thought that a Tax Return was a multiple choice quiz, where if she just got the right formula – like Suduko – she would win. That one of her voices was chunnering on about numbers, was a definite first. Common Sense kept talking.

While Paris gave her sagging face a perfunctory rub with a cleansing wipe, she listened to the voice. “Honestly Paris, “it started “so what if you’ve received 90 rejection letters”. Paris could feel Ego pricking up its ears. “So, out of all the people in world who are writing – what makes you think that yours wouldn’t be one to plucked out of the slush pile? After all the stuff you’ve been reading on blogs – a hundred people were picked out this week. Australia alone publishes 1000 books per month. You DO still stand a chance.”

Ego was sidling into the conversation now. “Yeah” he purred “Listen to Common Sense – for once, I agree…..by the way, have I told you you’re amazing lately”
Paris was in her jimjams now; fluffy socks donned, and ready to jump into the wide cold bed that dominated the room. She shook her head, pulling back the doona, and spoke out loud to all of them. “Thanks guys, I’ll talk to you in the morning”, feeling Ever Hopeful shrink back, knowing that come sparrows fart, she would be nursing more painful hematomas.