What Kind of a Girl Are You?
by Nicola Rose
Answer the questions to find out what type of girl you are! Remember, you can only pick ONE answer.
Q1) You would describe yourself as...
A. Tough but loving
B. Flirty and attractive
C. Quiet and intelligent
D. Sporty and tomboyish
Q2) In your spare time you like to...
A. Hit the gym
B. Go clubbing and flirt with boys
C. Read and relax, maybe listen to music
D. Drink beer and play video games
Q3) Your favourite thing about yourself is your...
A. Lips
B. Bum
C. Hair
D. Eyes
Q4) The best thing about being single is...
A. Not shaving your legs
B. Nothing
C. You can watch all the shows you pretend to hate but actually like, like Keeping Up with the Kardashians
D. Eating smelly foods like garlic or onions
Q5) What is your relationship like with your friends?
A. You secretly hate each other
B. You fight over boys ALL the time
C. You prefer cats
D. All your friends are guys. Girls are nothing but drama.
Q6) What is the best thing about being a girl?
A. Nothing
B. Male approval
C. Nothing
D. The competition between other girls.
Q7) Your method to success is...
A. Shout until you get what you want
B. Laugh until you get what you want
C. Stay quiet and hope you get what you want
D. Just be yourself. You never get what you want anyway.
Q8) A woman was murdered last week because she decided to walk alone at night. This wouldn’t happen to you because you...
A. Hold your keys between your knuckles
B. Wear jeans instead of a skirt
C. Walk quickly with your head down
D. Bring a man with you for protection
Q9) The most important thing to you is...
A. Being liked
B. Male attention
C. Approval
D. Male approval
Q10) What do you want to be when you’re older?
A. Not this
B. Not this
C. Not this
D. Not this
*
If you got mostly As...
You are an angry girl.
When you are fourteen you go to Tesco for lunch with your friends and on the way an older boy grabs your friend’s arse. She waits until you are in the shop to tell you. She puts her head down and whispers so the boy who did it doesn’t hear and suddenly you are on fire. You run around the shop looking for him and when you see him you start shouting. You call him a dick. You show him your middle finger. They laugh at you. Angry girls are a prize that says, well done, you did it, you won.
You swear a lot for a girl, you are told. You’ve been on Twitter since you were twelve and it has taught you of all the injustices and discriminations in the world. It has made you angrier.
There is an election coming up. You get into an argument with your father because he says he’s going to vote for someone you know is a racist, sexist bigot, and because you can’t help yourself. The dinner table is a battlefield. You sit at opposite ends, the words and glares like knives. You start to cry, and you want to call it anger; anger is what you know, what is comfortable, but honestly, it is heartbreak. It is all the faith you ever had in your father leaving your body.
He tells you that you are too opinionated and emotional and you need to get a grip on the real world, where nobody is Good. You call him a prick and leave, waving no white flag. He says you get your temper from your mother.
Five years after that lunch time at Tesco, that same friend goes to America and loses her virginity to this guy from New Zealand who has a girlfriend. You call her a hypocrite, a bad feminist. How could she do that to another girl? She calls you a bad friend. Within a year she moves to Leeds and you never talk again.
No one likes an angry girl.
*
If you got mostly Bs...
You are a slut.
The Valentine’s Day after you break up with your first boyfriend you go clubbing with your friends. You’ve never had a one-night stand before, but you’re single now and this is something you’re supposed to do. Your ex was older than you, much older, and he was bad at sex. You can count on the one hand how many times you actually did it.
In the club no one is looking at you. You wore a bright red denim skirt and matching lipstick, bought a headband with bendy heart-shaped boppers just so someone would look at you. You wonder if he tainted you—your ex—sucked away all of your sex appeal and youth (even though you’re only twenty).
Finally, towards the end of the night, someone flicks the bopper on your headband. He is blonde and young looking. You don’t find him attractive, but he’ll do. You get a taxi back to your friends’ flat, where you show him into the spare room like an estate agent.
He’s bad at it too. It is clumsy, awkward, neither of you drunk enough. It hurts so you get off him and take him in your mouth instead, let him finish that way. Afterwards you talk about your exes until the blinds turn yellow and he gets a taxi home. You insisted it was okay if he stayed for breakfast, but he left anyway. You stare at the ceiling, tracing the swirly pattern with your eyes. You can hear your friend snoring in the next room. Lying alone in her spare bed you wonder if this is what it is meant to be like.
At the clinic you sit in the waiting room amongst girls with greasy hair and dirty trainers, overweight men with their overweight girlfriends, young guys with tracksuits and cystic acne. You used to think you were better than them, but here you are, perched in the same poly chairs.
The nurse looks at you like you don’t belong there. She pokes your insides with a swab and takes your blood and reads from a list of questions, marking your answers on a clip board.
How often do you have sex?
Did you use protection?
Do you remember his name?
You don’t remember his name. You say over and over again that this is the first time you’ve done this, that you’ve only slept with one other person in your life. She looks at you like she doesn’t believe a thing about you. She says you’ll receive a text in a few days that will confirm if you have Chlamydia or Gonorrhea or HIV. Your blood will show if you’re pregnant too, just in case, she says. You want to tell her that this isn’t you. You’re a good girl, with a good family, with self-respect.
But it is, you think. It is you.
*
If you got mostly Cs...
You are an invisible girl.
It starts from a young age in Primary School, when your class is rewarded with an extra playtime and instead of joining in with tag or skipping, you sit on a bench and read Harry Potter, and everyone calls you a freak. You decide after that to stop reading books. You start wearing mascara and ask your mum for contact lenses as soon as you turn eleven.
They eventually move on to laugh at someone else; the kid with the stutter, the one who smells like cat piss. You laugh along with them with a horrible feeling in your stomach.
As you get older you tighten the screws on your jaw, fastening it shut. You overhear your parents arguing in the room next door. They’re each blaming the other for starting the fight. You think about playing some music to block out the sound. Instead you sit there and hear every word. You even press your ear against the wall when they stop shouting so you can still listen. No wonder she wants to move out so desperately. It’s because of you.
The bad thoughts creep through your mind like a dense fog. You want to put your mouth against the wall and scream, can’t you see what you’re doing to me! But of course, you say nothing.
The boy you sit next to in maths asks if you want to play a game. It’s called Fire Truck. He’ll trace his hand up your thigh and you’ll say red light when you want him to stop. You never wanted him to start so you say red light just after your knee. He says fire trucks don’t stop for red lights and you have to jump out your seat to get away from him. The teacher tells you off for causing a distraction and you never tell anyone what happened. You’re pathetic.
*
If you got mostly Ds...
You’re one of the guys!
You’re not like other girls. Other girls are the enemy. Instead of wearing low cut tops with push up bras, or caking your face in too-dark foundation, you find different ways to get attention. You wear skinny jeans to school. You listen to Fall Out Boy instead of Taylor Swift. You play Xbox so everyone knows you as the Gamer Girl. You talk about masturbation as casually as homework, and they lap it up. Your guy friends all take turns having crushes on you, making you question if they were even your friend in the first place.
Then a girl comes along who likes the same things as you do. A moment for new friendship. But no. She is a threat. She is here to take away your title. You say she is faking it. You would know. You actually like these things she only claims to like. Do you even know the name of their brother’s girlfriend’s mother’s dog’s favourite song? These words, they sound familiar, except this time you’re on the other side. The winner’s side.
Boys can’t be prettier than you. Boys can’t fancy the same boy you fancy.
Boys call you low maintenance. They don’t need to know you wake up at six every morning to put on make-up just so it doesn’t look like you are wearing any make-up, and to style your hair in a way that looks like you haven’t even tried. You are cool because you choose to eat pizza over salad. They don’t know you’ve been eating under 1200 calories since you were fifteen. Boys prefer you because they can make jokes about fat girls and rape and you don’t whine like other girls do.
You are here to have a good time. Boys like you because you don’t bitch or preach about feminism and all that rubbish. You just smile. Sit back. Spread your knees wide.
