Oh, Anastasia Steele. Reading your story on a crowded city bus might turn a school girl’s cheeks Fifty Shades of Red, but can you hold a candle dripping hot, nasty wax to Candy Liscious, Vegas showgirl with a past? You writhe in desperate agony when your hunk of manly exuberance spanks you like the poorly written character sketch you are, but afterwards you scream out “Holy Cow Patty” like a ten-year old boy who just stepped in a fresh pile of dog excrement. Candy Liscious tied up a Hell’s Angel with a chip on his shoulder, whipped him like a can of Reddi-wip, batted her press-on eyelashes and said: “Stop crying.” Your inner goddess kept up a distracting running monologue for about forty pages of overwritten prose. Candy Liscious wouldn’t know a goddess from a Hindu mandala, because she didn’t finish the fourth grade. School is for suckers. Especially “college”. You signed a contract with a millionaire so you could get some. Candy Liscious would only use a contract if it was on fire, to light her crack pipe. Oh, that's right. Your boyfriend's mom was a crack whore. Sorry, my bad. I meant to say: to light your book on fire.
Candy Liscious: 3 Anastasia Steele: 0
Game Over
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