Yeah, I’ll admit it. I’m reading the Fifty Shades series. I’m on the third book and it blows just as hard as the first two did.
Why do I do this to myself? Why do I continue to read a crappy books when we both know (me and the book) that the ending isn’t going to be worth the time spent. I read Atlas Shrugged and Anna Karenina because I felt I must. Some say genius, I say Karenina stole a summer I could have been reading Joan Collins numbers by the beach instead of trying to figure out why that dude thought Anna was all that.
I read the Twilight series with the same sort of approach as I’m taking with Fifty. I inhaled those books. I read them constantly, because ohmygodwhatshappeningwithEdward?
In fact, Fifty Shade of Stupid is just like Twilight (in terms of emotionally stunted pubescents jumping into bizarre, sexually charged relationships with dudes who have some serious issues) but with just a lot more graphic sex.
And the graphic sex would be pretty good reading if they weren’t sexing it up every other fucking second. I mean, come ON, people. No one has that much sex. Unless perhaps it’s your job. And then, well… I think there might be bigger issues if that’s the case.
Anyway, there it is. I’m reading it. So the book and it’s “Mommy Porn” hysteria came up at a dinner the other night. The group is not a close one. It was an uncomfortable topic until one of the women at the table (someone I’d only just met) passes me her phone and says, “Here. Read this.”