Fifty Shades of Regret

There are few things I regret more in life than reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. 

I don’t know why I did it. But I can never take it back. It’s like I killed part of myself. Part of my smart self. Here, UWI, take my degree away. I don’t deserve it anymore. 

I shamelessly judge anyone who reads this book and enjoys it. Especially anyone who does so out in public, in the open. That includes you, tourist lady on the beach in Tobago. You’ve been judged. 

For anyone who has the good fortune not to know, this…piece of…writing…chronicles the relationship and sexual encounters of a conveniently virginal and very stupid young woman and a conveniently handsome and very creepy man. Apparently, people who have never heard of porn are greatly attracted to the smut in this terrible novel. 

Not that I have anything against erotic novels. I mean, who doesn’t appreciate a bit of adult literature? But for God’s sake, at least TRY to write better than 12-year-old fangirl who hasn’t had her first kiss yet. The writing is simply awkward and repetitive. The main character keeps saying that her subconscious is talking to her. Bitch, your subconscious is silent, that’s why it’s called SUB conscious, it doesn’t talk to you. Perhaps she means her conscience or inner voice? I dunno. Also, the vocabulary appears to be limited. She expresses her surprise by saying one of the following: ‘Holy shit!’ ‘Holy cow!’ ‘Holy crap!’. We all know you aren’t a nun, so stop using ‘holy’ so much please.

It came as no surprise that it started off as a Twilight fanfiction, and was later edited to stand on its own. Somewhat. I never thought anyone would rip off anything from Twilight and be successful, but there you are. 

Sorry, Stephanie Meyer, you are no longer the author of the worst novel ever.