What I Learned From 50 Shades...

So, after my last post, I had 2 weeks of hell trying to finish up my semester (let's stress the word "trying" as no, it is STILL not done-- so help me). Then last week I wrote about 2/3 of a post about my focusing problems and at the epitome of irony, I lost focus and never finished it. It's a hot mess so I don't know if you'll ever see that one completed...

But this week, I'm going to slip into the book reviewer role.

As many of you know (especially as I think I posted it SOMEWHERE on here but I cannot remember), I agreed to read the 50 Shades of Grey books in order to special guest host a discussion on the crap series in August at my Mom's book club. It may just kill me.

I don't like to read. It takes too long and usually I get bored quickly (see focusing issues mentioned above). Reading has become the most unfortunate necessary evil as a student and particularly as a student who is never satisfied with my current education. So when I read, it's nonfiction, usually edited books in super professional and/or clinical language that I take copious notes on so that I, in theory, never have to read the material again. Which makes reading take longer. It's a vicious cycle of I'm not a fan.

Since I hate reading and mainly only read/benefit from nonfiction books, I thought that these were suitable explanations as to why I never ever needed to read 50 Shades of Grey. But if I was being totally honest, these are not effective excuses. I've read fiction books before and really enjoyed reading them but to hell with telling other people that because then they will continue to tell me how I just have have have to read these "it's terrible writing but it's SO good" books.

As I was going to mention in my profuse procrastination post, I was avoiding this one paper/class/professor SO much during exam week that I actually picked up and powered through about 120 pages of the first book in 3 nights. That's impressive for me. Shut up. Don't judge.

Most of the nights, I came to a stopping point because I thought, "Oh, ew, this guy is creeper mcgee." or because I just wanted to punch the main character's "inner goddess" in the fucking face. I guess my "inner goddess" is a little more violent...

To clarify-- I do not think that the dude is sir creeps-a-lot because he's into kink. I think he's a creep weasel because he's motherfucking creepy. Low-jacking someone's cell phone so you know where they are at all times is some psycho-stalker shit, you do not get a reprieve because you're this gorgeous bazillionaire. In fact, that makes it even creepier because you have the money and the charm to do God-only-knows-what with that information. Your creepiness knows no bounds, sir, and if you were so intuitive, you should know to keep that shit in check. Boundaries, dude.

Ok, I digressed there, BUT I what I mean to say is that I'm painfully reading this book wondering why the hell I hate it so much. I think back to the few books I do enjoy that are legit books and not textbook/tomes of clinical information:

• Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs. This is my most favorite book of all time but I rarely recommend it to people because I fully acknowledge that it is pure trash. Granted, it's better written than the trash of 50 Shades (for real, has the author ever read a freaking book and recognized that NOTHING of value is written in such a shitty way? Goodnight Moon is more sophisticated) but it's arguably much trashier than 50. I also watch things that overly embarrassing with their levels of trash, so clearly I'm not above reading garbage.
• Hannibal Rising by Thomas Harris. Thomas Harris is one of my favorite authors because he writes so simply. You could be super descriptive about face nibbling but Thomas Harris doesn't. He sticks to the point of "some serious shit went down" without flowery language... well, except in Hannibal, wtf was that?... and for that, I love him. So, simpleton writing doesn't bug me.
• Canterbury Tales by... some dead White dude. Obviously not my favorite book as I cannot remember the author at this moment but it's the most fancy book I DO like, mainly because some people have sex in a pear tree (sounds painful but possibly delicious) so kinky sex is a clear selling point for me.

So I wondered, why did I not like this 50 Shades of shit?And last night, it dawns on me. The whining. The whining of the main character is infuriating. Oh, your life as a privileged White college girl is sooo difficult because you have all these guys fawning all over you and then you succumb to the hottest and wealthiest guy on the West Coast only to find out he's a control freak in the bedroom like everywhere else in his life?

Hmmm... must nice to have no real problems... ever.

My life is NOT difficult at all. Not in the grand scheme of things. But I will still trade with you, simple bitch.

Whining is my literary dealbreaker and I should have clued into this earlier. When Harry Potter came out (of the closet, hahaha... ok, I'm not funny but that would've made for an interesting discussion on whether you can "cure the gay away" with magic-- would heterosexuals have bought into the magical world of Harry Potter if there were still gay people running around? Ok, I got off topic...), I was totally like every kid who needed the new Harry Potter book the DAY it came out and I was essentially unavailable for the next 5 days as I would read until my eyes bled.

But then the fifth book was released. I got it on the first day, as usual, and began to read. It was taking a little more time as I had totally forgotten a lot of the magical vocabulary (who the fuck is Voldemort, again?). But it was dragging even more because Harry Potter was crying like a bitch. "I'm Harry Potter. I defeated Voldemort multiple times and I'm as famous as Paris Hilton even though like Paris Hilton, I haven't done really anything of value. I live under some stairs with some dick muggles but I still expect everyone to tell me EVERY THING because I'm Harry Potter... and I think everyone should suck my dick."

...Ok, maybe Harry Potter didn't say that. But I didn't finish reading the book, so I couldn't tell you for sure.

THE POINT IS, I stopped reading the book 100 pages in because I felt that all Harry Potter was doing was whining to everyone and the fucking Sorting Hat... I also found out that the main character that they were going to permanently kill, which was played up to the nth degree before release, was, in fact, my favorite character. I literally threw the book in the corner so it could think about what it did. Haven't read HP since, have no intentions of doing so. Fuck Harry Potter and he can go whine about it to Voldemort during their next little tea party. Because, honestly, if you were defeated by a baby, you are a shit wizard. I don't care what anybody says.

And the characters in my favorite books don't whine. They complain, they have upsets, but they don't sit there and whine for pages which then causes me to whine-rant in blog post-form.

• Sellevision? One woman did kind of whine but it's safe to say that the cheese fell off her cracker and got mushed into the carpet. She slipped into crazyland, population: her. Whining is a little understandable.
• Hannibal Rising? Hannibal did also somewhat whine but he saw his sister get eaten which is a valid complaint, in my opinion. He also got off is ass and ate the people who ate her so... yea, turned a frown into upsidedown cake on that one... literally... let's move on....
• Nobody that I remember whined in Caterbury Tales there was some whining in Night but since that is a true account of the Holocaust, that's pretty valid to be not so thrilled about.

So, literary characters, if you're going to whine about your life, you better be a) cray-cray; b) willing to do something about it; c) whining about something legit. Or I'm not reading, got it?!

Also, don't be a convenient fucking feminist who has an "inner goddess" (gag me-- sexual pun fully intended) that mopes about not having a relationship with a guy that you're just DYING to please in the most patriarchal fashion and then get all pleased with your "inner goddess" self when you orgasm upon first having intercourse which is undeniably unrealistic when measuring sexual pleasure via orgasm is a totally male and specifically very UNFEMINIST way of looking at things. Simple. Bitch.