I started reading 50 Shades of Grey last night and I am appalled.
Not because of the content.
Dudes, I grew up in the era of the internet, went to public school and lived with boys. There is very little that shocks me at this point.
I’m appalled at how ass-achingly terrible the writing is and how this is becoming a thing in society.
When did pale-faced, gawky and gangly girls become the norm?
Does anyone find this remotely attractive?
Is this really a standard to aspire to?
“Oh no, I’m all klutzy and painfully awkward. I’m all pensive lip-bites and doe-like skittishness and FEELINGS. And yet, my milkshake brings all the boys to yard.”
Chick Lit heroines! They’re just like us!
Only…not. Because dudes, this is not me at all.
This is where my defective girl gene rears up in a big way.
Anyone who reads this blog knows I’m crap at being a girl.
I don’t bake – my cookies suck, my brownies come straight out of a box and the notion of frosting a cupcake causes me to break out into a cold sweat.
I don’t relate to Taylor Swift – Dude! You are tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich! It defies the very laws of physics for you to have man problems! You know what I would do if I was tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich? Sing about how amazing it is to be tall, blonde, skinny, pretty and rich!
I would probably blind myself if I attempted to apply liquid liner, jewelry doesn’t impress me and the notion of reading the Twilight series makes me want to tear off my own arm and club myself to death with it.
(Yeah — Augs hit the jackpot, right?)
Chick lit? I just can’t relate because I am not like this.
When I fall, it’s not all awk-dorable like a baby giraffe taking its first, tenative steps. It’s a graceless, sprawling wipeout of dipshittery.
I am not doe-like in any capacity. If anything, I’m a labrador. “Hi, I’m Jaime! Wanna grab a bite to eat? Sure you do! Dude, let me tell you all about this awesome shit that went down!”
I don’t toy nervously with the straw in my glass. I look the waitress in the eye, smile brightly and say, “Hi. Can I please have the biggest Diet Coke you have? Like, if you have one the size of my head – I’ll take it. Oh and lemon.”
In short — I’m a broad. Or a dame. And I refer to myself thusly partly because I have a thing for old-timey words, partly because I dig noir and partly because it’s sounds much better than the alternatives.
Broads and dames?
We drink gin.
We read real books by Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Chandler, Gaiman, Martin, Sedaris and Moore.
We watch good television.
We can out-talk you.
We will out-talk you.
We’ll probably out-curse you too.
We like to eat and eat well.
We are interesting and loud. We have opinions and we are unapologetically, unabashedly smart.
We will touch you when we talk and it’s not just because we want to touch you. It’s because we’re passionate and we can’t really communicate without gesticulating.
And when we bite our lip — it’s a whole new ballgame, slugger.
I’m just really tired of these passionless, boring women populating fiction these days. They just waif around waiting for some beautiful stranger to come along and imbue them with a sense of purpose.
A life in stasis is a really dull way to live and honestly, I don’t have the patience to wait around for someone to come along and make some noise.
So, I make my own and if you wanna grab a drum and bang along with me? Sweet! Let’s bring the noise.
Oh and I’ve decided I’m going to write a response to this insipid pablum. I’m calling it 100 Shades of Pink and it’s going to feature a bad-ass broad as the protagonist. It’s also going to be smart, well-written and just effing awesome.
Who’s down to pre-order?