Name of a name. And to think that this Newsletter falls on Women's Rights Day. As far as I know, we're not a minority. In fact, we outnumber men. So what's this crazy idea that comes up every year on March 8? Are we so undeserving that our rights are only celebrated on this date? It's better than nothing, you might say, but even so, aren't we ourselves participating in the debasement of our cause by accepting this? The question deserves to be asked and debated.

But I'm not Elisabeth Badinter and I've got other things to do. I've got to put shoes on the planet. And believe it or not, this is far more ambitious than any world day. Any day except the one that should be dedicated to me very soon.Let me explain: last Saturday, while serving in a boutique I no longer set foot in, I was surprised to discover a well-known actress who was buying almost all my stock. I can't decently reveal her identity, but you should know that it starts with Val and continues with Mercier. Anyway, she spots me and asks me if, by any chance, I might be the Queen of Grolles that the whole of Paris is talking about... I tried to hide the truth at first, but when she insisted, I decided to let it go. "Well, yes, crucify me if I've disappointed you, but it's really me, Patricia!"Without warning, she fell into my arms and began to cry, telling me she couldn't take it anymore and that I was undoubtedly doing a much better job than she was. She knelt down and begged me to change places with her. Let me embrace her profession, her daily life. Since I found her proposal surprising, I accepted her offer and took her place.

This consisted of going to art openings and cocktail parties where I played at being her. Then I had to write and perform her show. Then I had to make her film, write it too, then direct, act and edit it. I went on stage to collect his first César and thanked his parents as if they were my own. I made out with gentlemen I didn't know, and sometimes even made love to them. It was a wonderful discovery and a nice change from my guy who spends his time watching Netflix or playing foosball with his college buddies (grow the fuck up, man).

After almost a year of exchanging lives, I wanted mine back, so I went back to the office to claim my due. I was astonished because she wouldn't give it back. Comfortably installed in my shoes, she no longer wished to return to her tumultuous public life. I had to summon Johnnie Cochran's heir, now a lawyer himself, before I could dislodge the woman who now thought she was me. After months of legal wrangling, I was able to return home just as this public figure decided to disappear into thin air without a trace. Faced with the distress of his collaborators and family, I decided to continue endorsing his life. As I write these lines, I'm still playing his part. A blessing that allows me to experience bipolarity without too many hiccups. Thank you for your understanding.

I think it's nice, so I figure you will too: