Rape is not a Culture

We all know the story; it’s in all the films out of Hollywood.

Girl goes to a University party, there’s a little bit of tequila, maybe even a jagerbomb or two. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy decides to take girl to a secret spot to show her how beautiful she is. On the twig covered floor behind the dumpster he takes off her cardigan. Girl is so intoxicated she can’t speak. Boy pulls girl’s dress up to her shoulders and removes her bra. Girl is unconscious. Boy removes girl’s underwear and inserts his fingers into her genitalia. Girl is not moving. Boy thrusts his erection onto girl. Two Swedish bike riders see unconscious girl and horny boy. Boy runs away and they tackle him. Girl wakes up in a hospital room the next morning and is told she was raped.


In January last year Brock Turner raped an unconscious girl behind a dumpster at Stanford University.

Last Thursday he stood trial, pledged that it was consensual, and received only 6 months in county jail.

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Writting is Rubbish: A Rubbish Monologue which should have never been written

If university has taught me anything at this point, it’s that writing is hard. Really hard.


Writing is harder than getting dressed in the middle of winter.

Sometimes you don’t quite know how to start, sometimes you don’t know how to end without sounding like a self help book, and sometimes you find yourself with four different starts to a piece that are all rubbish.

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Say Goodbye to Summer


When the sun starts setting earlier, the nights start getting colder and you can no longer rely on your fan to lure you to sleep, you know it’s time to say goodbye to summer.

For us in Australia, summer lasts seven months of the year, and I couldn’t be happier with that equation. Minus the part where there’s weeks when it’s too hot to breathe and everyone gets the case of the temperature tantrums.

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Am I an Australian trapped in a New Zealand passport?

2016 is only three months old and I have already changed my outlook on my life and who I am. Before this year, if you had run into me overseas and asked me where I was from, I would have instantly replied with, ‘New Zealand,’ or my parents’ favourite-line, ‘New Zealander living in Brisbane.’ However, after spending the majority of February back in NZ, I’ve definitely never felt more Australian.

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Where Were You?

What were you doing when the news came through that Princess Diana had been killed in a Paris tunnel? Where were you when the first plane hit the twin towers? What were you thinking when the second plane hit?

These moments and the affects they have on people define generations. While the affects may differ, the event will be just as dramatic and defining for each person. Each will experience a tragedy that tears down their inner sanctum and drains them of their spiritual belief.

When Mandy was 32 she saw the first plane fly into the twin towers whilst she got ready for work.

“At first I thought it was just a movie so I changed the channel. But it was on every channel. It was actually real life. I’ve never been so gobsmacked and scared in my life.”

Pip was 16 when her life was changed forever.

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How to make friends at University

Time to dust off your biros and start washing your hair regularly, it’s time to go back to school, well uni. It’s been four months of sitting on the couch watching baking shows, so understandably your social skills are not quite up to par when making new friends in an institution that holds over 48, 000 students. No need to fear, after my second week back at what some describe as “hell”, Aunty Lauren has got your back when it comes to making friends.

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“You’re a Girl, You can’t be the Pope”

When I was 8 years old, Pope John Paul the second died. I remember sitting in a classroom, learning about whom he was, what he did and the impact he had on people’s lives (all whilst Josh Groban played in the background of course). Hearing how he changed lives inspired me. Even at the tender age of eight, there were so many people I wanted to help, so many things in this world that I wanted to change. It was at that point, in Miss Macardle’s year three class, that I decided what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to be the Pope of the Roman Catholic Church.

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“I will keep my juggs enclosed in my over the shoulder boulder holder at all times” and other New Years vows that won’t make it to February

This year, I rang in the New Year at a less than adequate and very dead party that I was not nearly drunk enough for (read: very excruciatingly sober). This was probably a sign to the subpar year that I was (unfortunately) about to hit head on (literally. Heels aren’t my forte).

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A letter to the Class of 2014

To the class of 2014, This is it. One week until you walk across the stage during a graduation ceremony longer than three Harry Potter movies, and chances are, you’re nervous, if not a little bit nauseous at the thought of tripping up the stairs. All rugs have been pulled out from underneath you and all sense of stability and order has been thrown into the bin along with the chunky black schools shoes you’ll never wear again. Scratch that, dig around under those bottles of passion pop and find your school shoes, you’ll need them next Friday.

You’re scared, (see also: agitated, nervous and must likely drunk off UDLS). It is okay, you’re not alone.

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