The Netflix of Books

The Netflix of Books – http://pulse.me/s/q8jkU

Bret East on Ellis Screenwriters 50 Shades…Why Have You Stooped So Low?

50 Shades of Backlash – http://pulse.me/s/pVTdw

Please, jebus, why???

How did the genius creator of American Psycho decide to put his name on such poorly written work?

All That I Am

When you are in love with someone you cannot see around them, you cannot get their human measure. You cannot see how someone so huge to you, so miraculous and unfathomable, can fit, complete, into that small skin. — all that I Am by Anna Funder.

Fifty Shades of Shit

It sucks. It fucking sucks. I skipped a bunch of shitty writing to the porny parts, and even the porny part sucks. If I were a seventeen year old, I’d probably eat this book up. But I’m not seventeen. I’m 26 and my sex life is much sexier and pornier than this piece of shit book.

How is it so successful?

OH yah. Because seventeen year old girls nowadays think reading any piece of shit book makes them smart.

I fucking hate Twilight.

This review expresses more accurately what I feel about these books.

Rules of Civility

Book finished. Finished it two days ago, and didn’t trust myself not to gush about it. Two days later, still thinking about it. As an enjoyer of books rather than a reviewer of books, I gotta say Amor Towles gave me a lot to think about.

Funny thing. My roommate suggested I start reading Fifty Shades of Grey. I started, not really know what it’s about, and then I immediately stopped reading it. It’s crap. Utter crap. Its only saving grace is all the sex. But I grew up reading regency romance novels, and I have a particular taste when it comes to sex in novels; and Fifty Shades of Crap does not meet my standards.

Essentially, attempting to read a really shitty book right after I just finished a really good one makes me miss the really good one all the more. Now I’m frantically looking for the next book that will give me the butterflies in the stomach, head over heels in love feeling just so I can get over Rules. Ugh. I’ve got a literary hang over.

The Day We Met

I met you at the supermarket. Shop&Save. I was randomly browsing the isles because I didn’t really have anything to buy. I went into the grocery store for the air conditioning after a long work out at the gym.

I stood there and spent a good half an hour getting to know you. I had already missed two of the buses I should have taken to get home.

I wore work out pants and a flimsy pink tank top over my purple sports bra ($10 from Old Navy). You were decked out in stylish black and white, looking like you were on your way to an event. I fell in love.

You began with a simple introduction of yourself. Not very much different from most people you can find in a grocery store–but then you started telling me your life story, and I was hooked. Your story wasn’t very unique, but it was the way you told it. Your style and your wit kept me entranced.

Then I thought I had to bring you home. The price tag you were sporting stopped me in my tracks. Not that I couldn’t afford you–but simply that I had married an electronic version of you a few months prior. My spouse at home had promised that I’d never have to purchase a well written story again… but there was just something about you. The way you drew me in told me you were worth the price tag, and you were worthy of distinction from all the other free stories I could get at home.

I had butterflies. And just like every time I begin satisfying love affairs (Firefly Lane; A Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers; The Time Traveler’s Wife and too many others…), I was irresistibly drawn to you. I knew that you would make me cry. I knew that you work make me yearn. I knew that by the time our affair ends–as these things always do–I would breathe you into me and try to keep you with me forever.

I’ve read many books, I’ve listened to many stories, but I know that you are going to be one that stands out. I’ll recommend you to friends, and I’ll come back to you again after enough time has passed for me to forget what our affair felt like.

Even now, I have to force myself not to crack you open and indulge. Because I know if I rush things, this would all be over much too soon and I would be left with an emptiness until I find a replacement for you–and believe me, it would be difficult to replace you. So instead of indulging, I come here to rave about you instead.