50 shades of fan fiction

So far “le Janvier” is going well. I sliced off some of my tooth while flossing– that’s the last time I improvise with razor-wire! I actually freaked out quite a bit, who slices off a tooth? So I went to the dentist for a filling, and it turned out I just took off the edge of a tooth which was holding in a previous filling. So we numbed me up and put in a new filling. In the following hours I realised that because I had no feeling in my mouth I managed to chew up the whole left side of my cheek innards. You would think after 27 years I would know where my cheek is, but no. Luckily I had Mum around who stuffed my mouth full of cotton wool. I doubt I’ll ever not need my Mum.

I’ve been trying to slug through the last Fifty Shades of Grey book. I find it really hard to read; mostly because it’s so terrible. When I first bought the trilogy I was pretty excited, “Finally! Erotic literature tailored for Mommys, I thought this day would not come!” But it has nothing to do with fantasising you’re a mother who’s reading pornography. Its reputation is very misleading! 

I can handle the bad grammar, the molestation of a thesaurus, and the switching up of past and present tenses; but I find it difficult to ignore Ana’s Subconscious and Inner Goddess. I don’t know about you but my subconscious is below my conscious level of perception. While hers is reading “the complete works of Charles Dickens Volume One” (no specific titles necessary, neither the reader nor author have read any Dickens anyway!) my subconscious is off processing some childhood trauma or something. I’m not certain of that though; I have no idea what goes on in there – it is sub consciousness. The subconscious is like a warehouse of experiences our conscious minds don’t understand. I imagine it to be like a processing factory out in the woods, ready to deliver the pieces of information if the consciousness requires it. It doesn’t tut, have spectacles, or read fancy English books.

When I see the words “Inner Goddess,” I read it as “please skip to the next paragraph.” The metaphors don’t make any sense.  “My inner goddess is doing a triple axel dismount off the uneven bars.”  I don’t know what that is supposed to mean!  She feels so sexy she imagines she’s a gymnast? That sounds more stressful than erotic.  I also imagine her inner goddess being like Animated Lizzie from Lizzie McGuire, which makes her even more ridiculous.



The thing that bothers me most is that E.L. James doesn’t understand her characters, and is highly judgemental about "alternative lifestyles". The blatant emotional abuse issue seems to be ignored, but then the fact that Edward Christian is a little kinky is frowned upon. Ana clearly finds it hot, but after the sex is over she’s all “Holy shit bananas that was amazing, but there must be something wrong with him, even though I consented to it all and really enjoyed it too. Time to psychoanalyse and cure him! Because love is about curing people’s faults; faults which I both condemn and encourage.”

Can’t he just be a sadistic pervert and leave it at that? To each their own.

Plus his back story is lame and lazy. I would be much more satisfied with “he’s got Scorpio rising with Pluto in the 1st house”. Leave it there, it’s sexier.

But no; we have to figure out the hunky mysterious man, stripping him of his hunky mysteriousness. Mystery is sexy, mother-issues... less sexy.

Christian stalks Ana, which also isn’t sexy, or acceptable. If he is supposed to be this confident dreamy guy then I would think it would be out of character for him to be obsessing over her. Confidence is sexy, jealousy and trust issues aren’t. The stalking and jealousy thing comes across as wimpy, and as soon as he started doing that I just got annoyed with him, and certainly didn’t want to be having fantasy dommy/subby sex with him.

I love you like a friend, wimpy cartoon guy!

Ana annoys me too. Saying you’re smart and read old English literature is not the same as actually being smart and able to use words correctly. Not using plain English makes her come across as a dumbass. Sure, the words sound impressive when not in the context of your sentence; but they are, and their meaning isn’t what you think it is. You sound like a wanker, dear. I can empathise with Christian – I’d wanna smack her too.

Beh. The characters deserve each other really.

Here’s a review which sums it up well. It has GIFs!  Possibly NSFW, depending on where you work.

This video also makes me laugh: It has Selena Gomez.

In conclusion, read it if you want a laugh from reading the numerous parodies and reviews, but not for sexual stimulation.  There are much better written erotic novels out there.  Hell, there is a lot better fan fiction out there, with even better shipping than Bedward! 

"I heart you Doctor Tennant!"
"Actually if you don't mind it's just the Doctor..."

Room sniffing

Happy New Year friends! I hope everyone’s pumped for 2013.I find the first week of a new year is my favourite; It’s hot, there’s no work, and I haven’t failed my resolutions yet. This year I resolute(?) to write at least 12 posts again. It’s not an inspired resolution, but I’m so chillaxed right now that I’m using the word “chillaxed” without quotations.

Today I went into what was my Nana’s room in the last months of her life. I miss my Nana, and complain of it often to anyone who’ll listen. Her scent is still in the room; her things and her smell. I feel sad knowing that each time I sneak in there to steal a sniff of her I’m losing the potency by diluting her scent with fresh Sam, but time will also steal that. I can beat time if I use the power of the present (I’m on to you… time; if that is even your real function!)

I suspect Mum’s the same. It’s been almost 2 years since Nana died, and the room is unchanged. A closed off room we pass every day but don’t enter. It’s there and it’s not there. The Schrodinger’s cat of Canberra; though when you do open it she’s still alive, in a way – Unfortunately not in a literal way; in more a “her memory will live on…” sort of way. So it’s not really a Schrodinger’s cat at all…

There’s this idea that we have three deaths. The first is our physical death, when our body dies. The second is when we are consigned to the grave, and the third death is when our name is spoken for the last time.

I suppose it’s fortunate that I have a super common name. :P

Anyway, while trying to acquire some olfactory nostalgia in my Nana’s old room, I came across some postcards sent to Nana from my Mum when we went overseas when I was very young. I saw them and thought, “I better not look, it’s addressed to Nana,” but then I thought, “it’s a postcard, if the postman is allowed to read this then there is no reason I shouldn’t be allowed to too!”

My ego was expecting such sentiments as “Samantha is a delight; she is by far the finest daughter one could ask for,” and, “children are the greatest joy of one’s life!” Nope. “The kids are tired and fighting,” and, “this is hard,” were the more the idea. I felt a bit sorry for my mum (and my ego).

Then I realised, Nana wasn’t just my rock; she was my Mum’s rock too. In fact, Mum was there first so she might've even had more of a claim on Nana than I did. Though Nana wasn’t Mum’s Nana, she was Mum’s Mum, and I know what a powerful relationship Mothers and their daughters can have. Since losing Nana, Mum and I have found rocks in each other. (We should probably get that checked out…)

It’s funny that all of those years I went down to my Nana’s house to complain about my Mum; Mum was doing the same thing about me. To be fair, I was a shit teenager. In fact, I used to go to my Nana to complain about myself as well.

Anyway, point is that Mum and I are cool with each other now. Our parent/child relationship was testing at times, but we’ve come to an understanding about each other and both really appreciate one another as adults. Or at least, I know I really appreciate her. My Mum makes a really great friend; I’m blessed to have her. I just hope she doesn’t mind that I have a room sniffing habit.

Mum, your daughter is weird! (This message also applies to Dad.)