After having it in my possession for over a year, I finally finished it.

That’s right.

I finally finished reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I am fully aware of how late I am to this party and frankly now that I’m done with it, I wish it was a party I never attended. It took me over a year because I could only handle it in small doses  and needed time in between reading chunks of it to forget about how terrible it is.

It is literally the worst thing I have ever read. Let’s ignore for a moment everything that is disturbingly wrong with the relationship that is the main focus of this book, and focus on the fact that it is simply terribly written. Part of me wishes I had kept count of how many times the phrases “my breath hitches”, “my inner goddess”, or some slight variation of them was used. I’m sure it’s at least 132. It was agony to read. It was the worst.

Let’s talk about how terrible the relationship is and how awfully and wrongly this lady (I can’t even bring myself to call her an author) portrayed bdsm. Now I am relatively new to the world of bdsm but the things that are wrong with the relationship are so glaringly obvious anyone should be able to pick on it. If I can, you can.

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