ff

i go to a small house party in glasgow with my friend and some of her uni pals. they're theatre types, big personalities, fun, warm, welcoming, a real pleasure to be around. also at the party thee is a collection of young men friends-of-the-flat-inhabitants. not classmates of my friend. these boys are friendly too. easy to talk to. it is nice. it would be nice

except. each and every one of those boys makes a joke about rohypnol. as in: drugging me or someone else in this house so that i or we could be raped. you know.
rape jokes.
haha.
every one of them. separately. (and together.) to me. a girl who has never met them before. in a city i am visiting, in a house i don't know at all. some of them come back to the rohypnol-theme a few times. even after i say, as laughingly but firmly as i can muster, that i am not a fan of rape jokes, actually, and maybe they could find something else to joke about?

now.
i wasn't really scared of these boys. i didn't think any of them were gonna rape me or anyone there. not really. i mean. probably not! maybe not. almost certainly not.

but i couldn't know. you can never know.
girls talk often about how many times they've asked themselves 'is this my rape? will this be my rape?'. when we are in elevators or cabs, when the mood in a room turns, when arguing with a drunk friend, a drunk stranger, a big man, an angry man, a group of men, in hallways, bedrooms, bathrooms, alleys, parks, cars...

these boys poured and brought me drinks - sparkling wine for a communal bottle. adult-house-party stuff. tame mid-week gathering of grown-ups stuff. at one point it was obvious that three of these boys were talking about me, whispering to each other, staring at me across the kitchen. i called them out, playfully, not aggressively, not like i maybe would've like to... they laughed about it, made a joke about having been caught-out. followed up with another rape joke. like a playful wink. like a nudge. almost for sure not a threat.
haha.

i didn't drink anything they gave me. and i didn't like any of them at all.

except for the rape jokes they were funny/witty/interesting men. i would've liked them all. i wanted to like them all. i wanted to enjoy myself at this party in glasgow.

but instead i had a knot of anger in my gut, and a voice in my head that said 'don't get comfortable, just in case, be ready to be scared, be ready, have the fear ready, be on guard, just in case, just in case'. and i didn't drink anything they gave me. and i didn't like any of them at all.

ff

in honour of me finally getting around to getting the rookie yearbook two, rookie rookie rookie day! holy damn, i love this mag so hard it is dumb. so good, always, that it just explodes my insides with hope and joy and gladness.

and it is not hard, this week especially, to proclaim the greatness of rookie thanks to a brilliant little piece by hazel cills in which she mic drops and then gives you the best stare down of all time and everyone everywhere goes bananas cuz HAZEL RULEZ!!! check it.

'[on]...The Atlantic’s website, Jake Flanagin took a look at a work of over-the-top campy fiction [Ja’mie: Private School Girl] and posed, in all apparent sincerity, this question (about real people!): “Why are young women turning into monsters?” I repeat: monsters. Ooh, scary! I’m sure we’re a big threat to straight white men who write for magazines like The Atlantic, what with all our dangerous selfies and Snapchats and sexts. The article went on to wonder whether the average viewer was smart enough to tell that the show is satire: “Presumably, Lilley poses this array of amusing insecurities and prejudices as a critical device, not face-value comedy,” Flanagin sniffed. “But it’s difficult to say whether the audience can discern the difference.”

As a member of that audience and a teenage girl (aka future monster), I’d like to ease his fears, at least on that last point: Teenage girls know that Ja’mie: Private School Girl is satire; it’s by Chris Lilley, for god’s sake. Have you ever met a teenage girl, Jake? We don’t act like Ja’mie. Just like how you, a guy in his 20s, don’t act like Van Wilder. 

Or so I assume (insert a thousand winks here).'

* kids won't listen - in which hazel tells middle-aged men to please stop trying to explain (mansplain) being a teenage girl, thanks

yes. seriously. yes yes, thank you. the rookie writers are consistently witty, smart, funny, bold, cool, and a zillion other great things. if i were a middle-aged man who worked in the journalism world i'd be scared shitless of rookie. they are the future, folks. and the future looks hella good.

i'm gonna go dance in my apartment after filling it with black balloons. peace out, internets! 

and happy friday, teenagers.