As you have probably heard, we are in the end times.
In just a couple of days the world will be once again bothered with another Fifty Shades book, as EL James goes even more Single White Female on Stephenie Meyer and releases her own terrible version of Meyer’s thankfully aborted Midnight Sun. Yes, it’s 2015 and the thing is still not going away. At this point the Fifty Shades franchise is rather like being in a relationship with its hero; you can kick and fight and scream NO! at the top of your lungs, but it’s still going to keep happening.
However, I will not be reading this book.
I admit, I’m curious, but I’ve been curious about a lot of things in my life, including buttchugging, heroin and the Young Conservatives. Curiosity is a good thing, but in some cases you have to let your sanity speak louder and just walk on by. Eavesdropping on the gross mental perambulations of a dollar store Patrick Bateman is definitely one of those times.
I’ll be keeping an eye on reviews; it’s going to be interesting to see how the critics respond to a romantic hero who fantasises about sexually assaulting the heroine within the first five pages and openly admits that he thinks women are toys he can buy, but reading the thing? Nope. This has gone on too long as it is. I have other things planned for this year and they don’t include wading through this bloated yawn of a book again, especially not through the eyes of a character who calls grown women baby and says things like ‘she’s an alluring little piece’. Not if I ever want to be able to open my legs again without the aid of a car jack.
So, to all of those brave bloggers who are attempting to chronicle this sad, desperate cash in, I wish you the very best of luck, a constant supply of booze and plenty of lovely soft pillows to scream into. You’re going to need them.
Also, I’d be very interested to know what the billionaire dick God actually does for a living. Three books and I still have absolutely no fucking idea. (My current theory is leprechauns.)