Head's up: If any of you fuckers comment at the bottom of this review and say, "You don't understand BDSM" I will hunt you down and make you eat your computer, plus the mouse, plus the keyboard, plus any other internet-connected devices in your home, including but not limited to iPhones, iPods, iPads, Androids, games consoles and ereaders. This book is not an accurate or healthy portrayal of a real BDSM relationship between two consensual and enthusiastic parties. Thus, by defending it as such, you are doing a disservice to the actual culture of BDSM (no kinkshaming). So don't fuck with me and try to pull that shit. 
 Oh, also, there will be a substantial amount of cussing throughout this review. If you care about the sanctity of your virgin eyes then shut down your computer and go do something else. We are all grown-ass adults and this is the internet. If you're going to come over and here and lecture me about swearing then I'd advise that you PIPE the fuck down and stop being so bloody delicate. 
 Alrighty, then. You guessed it, guys: it's story time. 
 When I was thirteen, I decided I wanted to be an author. For years I'd chattered away about being an architect or a vet or what have you, but who was I kidding? All I ever wanted to do was write. So I sat down, and I did. I did write. 
 I'm actually not shitting you. I thought it would be as easy as sitting down and writing some crap on Wordpad (alright, calm down, this was the noughties) and I wrote a lot of crap: I tried to write a play, and then I tried poetry, and then I wrote short stories, before eventually expanding into novels. 
 Novels is a stretch. I wrote about a hundred single-spaced pages and to my present-day horror, made my family read it. And they actually did. Remember all those embarrassingly awful school projects you did when you were thirteen? Or even just those embarrassingly awful things you did in general when you were thirteen? I feel the same level of shame when I think of my little preteen self, handing this pile of shit over to my sister and thinking I actually had something. 
 About a year later, with zero knowledge of how publishing works, I posted it straight into a bunch of indie publisher's slushpiles. A vanity publisher replied to me and told me they didn't want my work, and I did the undoable: I argued with them. 
 As I write this, I'm practically convulsing with embarrassment. Vanity Publisher, if you're reading this, please forget I ever existed. But if you can't do that, at least give me an alias when you tell all your friends about that dumb kid who sent you the book about pyromania without having done any research. 
 In some ways, having read this book, I finally feel like I identify with that vanity publisher: I read someone's irredeemable shit and hated it, but then they tried to defend it and I got so mad I broke a window with my face. 
 (Peeps, if you think E.L. James hasn't tried to defend this shit, then you need to get on YouTube and watch some pleading vids from the publisher.) 
 I just... 
 I haven't read a book this awful since Revealing Eden (but let's not open that can of worms). It was like an acid trip. Am I reading this, I thought? Is this actually a published book? Are people actually parting with money for this slab of steaming garbage? 
 I feel like this book insulted me, really. I feel like it spat in my face, because what reader-respecting author would create a protagonist this redundant and awe-inspiringly dense, expecting an audience to love and respect her? It's as if someone took an ice-cream scoop and relieved Ana of her brain. How could you...? Why would you...? Why is she...? 
 I just... 
 I have no words. I have no words to explain this protagonist. None at all. I have more to say about the love interest, who's like a more threatening Charles Manson but with only one brainwashed follower (Ana). This guy goes to the hardware store and buys like chains and lime and shit and Ana doesn't think this is weird? 
 What the fucking fuck? 
 And of course there's the whole "inner goddess" shit and Ana thinking that it's sexy to wear a chunky knit sweater and be strapped into a vehicle, and then using the word "vagina" during a sex scene. 
 "Oh, he touched my vagina". 
 Yeah, excuse me while I tame my boner! 
 I felt so uncomfortable reading this book. Now, let's be honest here: I read porn. Of course I read porn. Anyone over sixteen who says they've never looked at or read porn is talking out of their ass. But this book made me feel uncomfortable, and here's the kicker: I read it alone. I was reading it alone in my living room, and I felt uncomfortable inside my own head. What the fuck does that tell you? 
 I don't want to start yammering on about the way this book is written. It's written like horrendous fanfiction. There are spelling and punctuation errors, stupid turns of phrase, random asides, stilted dialogue, awful physical descriptions, weird pacing, and I don't know, like a thousand instances of brand dropping and band-naming which gives the book this bizarre cheap and dated quality that really takes away from what little redeeming features it might have had. 
 What are the redeeming features? I don't know. The blurb sounds interesting. That's about it. 
 But what is it about this book that's captured the attention of so many millions of people across the world? The absurdly stupid protagonist? The pushy, obsessive, totally unrealistic love interest? The relationship in which only one party is actually interested in BDSM, and the other is incredibly resistant to it, but is forced into it? The terrible writing? The awful cover art? The cheap, thin binding? A story so convoluted, so ridiculous, so totally immature it could only ever have been born from Twilight? 
 There is nothing enjoyable about this book. This book is garbage. There are no two ways about it: it is shit. Awful, awful shit. And I'm not sorry for saying so. This is my fucking opinion, and I'm damn well going to voice it. 
 This book can kiss my ass.