I stare down at the two letters in front of me. Letter one,

Dear Ms Gia Mazziatto,

We regret to inform you that your application to the Parson's School of Design to study in Fashion Design has been rejected.

That's all I need to read. The rest is just fluffed up blabber about how I came close but unfortunately I didn't have what it took and how I should try again in the approaching year.

Letter two,

Dear Ms Mazziatto,

You have recently applied to New York University to study an undergraduate degree in Journalism and Mass Communication. We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted into this...

I wish the choice weren't so easy. Journalism sounds like fun and everything but my first choice is to enter the wanky fashion industry. I don't quite know, but I figure my ultimate career goal would be to be a stylist. And the month I spent touring with Taylor in Europe was how I found out about this whole thing anyhow. It was fun collaborating with Mariana, Hanson's stylists about which belt buckle to match with which disgustingly patterned shirt. So yes, those horrid paisley shirts were partly my fault. But it was just too funny to resist doing. And worse yet, Taylor actually liked my suggestions. I don't think he realised that I was sending him up.

"You'll have fun doing Journalism," Taylor tries to cheer me up, "You get to go to New York,"

"And leave behind Mom and Marc,"

"You'd have to do that even if you got into Parson"s,

"True, but I'd be slightly happier about it,"

"What's not to be happy about in New York? You're going to spend the next three years in the city that never sleeps,"

"That'll be cool, on the eastern seaboard. I'll be able to see the Atlantic," she ruminates. There's a silence,

"Look, you can do journalism and go into fashion journalism and then from there you could easily go into styling," he states, waving his arms around wildly. I shoot him a look,

"You think if you're on tour during vacation I could be your stylist?"

"That's an idea," he muses, his forefinger slides along his chin while his thumb rests on his jaw line.

"Just a puerile idea. Never mind,"

"I'd be happy to bring it up with management," he nods vigorously.