Archive for August, 2012


This year we’re not off to sunny Spain!

No, I’m really not off to Spain sunny or otherwise, but I am doing something which I haven’t done since last year. I’m taking a real break from writing. While I have taken a weeks break here and there over the past year, it’s always been because of illness, or some random disaster.

Well right now I don’t feel horribly sick, just sort of normally sick, so I’ll actually be able to do stuff other than sit, cuddling a hot water bottle. And that has sort of coincided with my starting to feel the onset of writers burn out. So I’ve decided that as my Partner in Crime is at a loose end for a few weeks I’m going to not write at all for a little while.

No work on my current novel, no blogs, no short stories, no erotica. Nadda. A real break.

Just my PC, my boyfriend, computer games, and a lot of time spent in front of the telly not thinking about plotlines. It’s going to be frikkin’ great!

So everyone have a great few weeks, and I will be back, renewed, and ready to kick arse on Tuesday the 4th of September with the first of my long promised video blogs (Ya, that didn’t happen but it is going to.). Now that’s something to look forward to.


“Why?” is usually the wrong question.

Now bear with me on this one.

My Partner in Crime, her daughters, her granddaughter, my mom, all my adopted lil sisters, and most of my friends often end up asking me “Why?” This is usually after I’ve done something that’s somewhat off the wall, like start dating a boy, or taking up airsofting, or masturbated using paprika and olive oil as lubricant. (No, I’m joking about the last one, that would just be perverted, and a complete waste of good paprika.)

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why do you live like that?”

“Why do you want to keep your vagina non-adjacent oversized clit?”

And of course;

“Why paprika?”

The thing is people almost always ask me “Why?” when if they simple added one word to that question they would not only have their answer, but the reason I’m usually the happiest, cheeriest, bounciest goth-girl you could ever meet. That word? Oh it’s really very simple. You see the question, the ultimate question, that also happens to be my ultimate answer, and which leads to a happy unbearably fluttery Amanda is “Why not?”

A few years ago I discovered that the question/answer “Why not?” was my personal route to happiness.

“Date an amazing, gorgeous, delicious, dominant woman 22 years older than me…..feck it, why not?!” 8 years later we’re still together, and going strong.

“Write a short story…feck it’s decided to become a novel, a bugger it, why not?!” Three years later I had finished my first novel. And after two years of decompressing, and figuring out what precisely I had learned from that experience, I’m half way through my second, with a third being laid out as well.

“Let that bastard who just grabbed my MP3 player go, or grab his hood, slam him to the ground, give him a slapping,  and take it back…Fuck Him! Why not!?” One fight bite, some applause from onlookers, and my MP3 player is still mine.

“Why not?” is liberating, empowering, fun.

“Why not?” leads to adventures.

“Why not?” helps me to leave my doubts, and fears far behind.

However “Why not?” also forces me to think of the repurcussions of my actions. Weight them against the potential outcome, and help me to make a decision whether it’s worthwhile.

I never ask “Why?” anymore. When I read about some atrocity in any land, near or far, I don’t ask “Why?”, I ask “Why not?” Put myself in the shoes of those responsible, and often enough I suddenly, distressingly, understand.

But mostly “Why not?” just makes me happy. Like right now I’m staring at a picture of a pair of Demonia Rangers, they’re delicious, and gothy, and sexy, and I could kick my way through a battle-tank in them. Wanna guess what question I’m thinking?





Who the hell though frozen Smarties were a good idea?

My mom is wonderful. But bless her cotton socks she does seem to think that deep down it’s still the 1980’s, and that I’m still 10 years old. Say this because I can think of no other logical reason for her deciding that I would be delighted to chow down on a huge tub of Nestle Smarties Ice Cream.

Okay let’s get this out-of-the-way first. I generally don’t like Nestle chocolate. The occasional Kinder Egg. But overall I find their chocolate far too sickly sweet.

However I am at heart a child of the 80’s. I was raised on Jelly Tots, Polar Mints, Whispa bars, and of course Smarties. I seriously doubt that any child who grew up in either Ireland or the United Kingdom managed to get through their childhood without eating a couple of kilo’s of Smarties. After all they were cheap, brightly coloured, and for a Nestle product surprisingly tasty. Though far from my favourites. To be honest these days I’d rather eat cat kibble then Smarties, but when I was a kid, chocolate was chocolate. And coming from a relatively poor background you took what you could get.

Flash forward from the 80’s, when my favourite thing to wear were my pair of royal blue corduroy shorts, to the present day, when my favourite things to wear are either my Mistress or my boyfriend.

My mom had decided that as a treat for my puppy sitting (just wait til I finish the post about THAT experience.) for her over the weekend, she would get some Smarties ice cream in the shopping. Admittedly along side two bars of Lindt white vanilla chocolate, a chocolate swiss-roll, and a dozen bags of popcorn. My mom knows me very well. I was dubious, but grateful, after all ice cream IS ice cream.

So Saturday rolled around, and feeling bloody awful I decided a viewing of The Andromeda Strain and a large bowl of ice cream were in order. I sit down, Take a spoonful, but it in my mouth, and without thinking I bit down on a harder than normal lump.


Who the fucking hell thought putting Smarties in to a frozen dessert was a good idea? Seriously?

The ice cream is delicious, but those little flattened pieces of chocolate are nothing less than a booby-trap. Perfectly designed to send you shrieking to the dentist.

Besides frozen Nestle chocolate tastes of pretty much…nothing. Nothing at all.

Okay maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m at fault here, and I’ve lost so much of my inner child that the idea of rock hard chocolate waiting in ambush in my ice cream doesn’t fill me with glee.

Maybe it’s my fault because I’ve gotten older, and my health has weakened my teeth a little.

Maybe it’s my fault because didn’t look at what I was eating, assuming foolishly that I would be allowed to keep my teeth a while longer.

Or maybe, just maybe, who ever came up with the idea for Smarties in ice cream needs a good hard, swift kick to the testes. You know just to remind him that ice cream should be fun, not painful.





Thoughts that have haunted me since waking, six days ago!

On the morning of the 1st of August I posted the core of what follows on my Facebook account. Six days later I still feel this echoing in my head, so I decided to expand on it a little and put it on my blog. I hope it makes sense to someone.


I woke up that morning with one thought going around, and around in my head, “you have one wish!”

It’s obviously an echo, a left over from the last dream of the night, but now I’m sitting here, even now wondering what my one wish would have been…

I know, a slavegirl who will come back when I free her?

No, a publishing deal?

Actually I think I’d really like a ukulele with perfect intonation after the 7th fret?

Never mind I think it should be an airsoft rifle with a barrel that doesn’t have an internal diameter of 7.36mm (really? Double Eagle…seriously)?

You know, now that I think about it maybe I should go with a pussy to go with the oversized non-vagina adjacent clit?

Crap, I just saw myself topless in the mirror, I should probably ask for firmer boobs?

A screw all that, what I really want is enough money to finish my moms mortgage for her.

Well it’s not like it really matters. Even if Athena herself appeared in front of me, with an owl on her shoulder ,and surrounded by a flock of magpies, it’d still just be to tell me one thing.

“Oh sorry all out of wishes, but here, have a hard as fuck quest instead.”

Well my response to that would have to be a firm, but polite, “Quest to kiss my ass!”

I think my childhood finally completely, and truly died that morning. I woke up thinking I had one wish, something I would have before greeted with glee. But now all I can think is “yeah and that wish is inside a condom filled with deep heat, tiger balm, fire ants, and a dose of the clap. And the only way to reach that wish is to just stick it in there and take the shit as well…” Because you know what? Wishes are bullshit.

I can wish my life away and never receive either what I want, or what I need. And even if I did I’d find that I valued neither. I think I’ll move on now to asking my patroness for guidance so my feet land on the right path, the path that with enough hard work will lead to what I want, and need. Assuming I need that guidance at all.

*This has been a random saunter through the mess that is both Amanda Harper’s conscious and unconscious mind. Tune in on Thursday for something a bit more normal.


Letting go of things – My Books (follow up).

A while ago I spoke about how I was going to give away most of my book collection. Well I’ve started. Over the past two weeks I have donated about 130 books to charity, and it’s hard to think of anything I’ve done in recent times, which hurt me more to do.

But I’ve made a good start. All my Star Trek and Wars novels have been given away. So have almost all of my random “one book by a random writer” books, have hopefully found their way in to loving new hands. I even gave away my complete set of The Black Magician. And believe me that one hurt.

But none hurt so much as giving away the very first book I ever bought for myself.

Back when I was 12 I bought myself a book. It was second-hand. It was paperback. It was a book which I didn’t realise came in the middle of a series (sort of).  It cost four pounds. It was Scions of Shannara by Terry Brooks. And it marked the start of my book collection. Within a year I had fifty books, including all of the Shannara series which had been written to that point.

But mostly it represented for me the moment I started to grow up. I wanted to read what I wanted to read. I had money, and I spent it for my own pleasure.

Well anyway after 22 years in my possession it has finally been passed on to someone else. I hope they gain as much pleasure from it as I did.

Now I guess I should get to what I’m gaining from this clear out, rather than what I’m losing. Which is really meant to be the point of this post.

Well so far I’ve gained;

  • Space; after 130 books leaving my possession 1 and a half book cases are now empty. This means that I have display type storage space for numberous things which had yet to be unpacked after my move to my new house.
  • Much less dust; even after so little has been given away I was stunned by just how much less dust there is where those huge stacks of books used to me. I mean we all know that books collect dust the way readers collect books. But when I compare where those books used to be, to where there still are books in my home…blown away by the difference.
  • Closure; each of my books was a memory. If they weren’t I wouldn’t have kept them. And even though none of those memories were exactly bad, they were often linked to memories of experiences which have haunted me my whole life. It came as a total surprise to me how much better I feel about those memories as I give away each physical link to them.What happened is still there, still a part of my past, and what brought me to this point in my life. But, giving away the book connected to a given adjacent memory feels kind of like snapping a rope that was holding the bad memory close to me. And now they’re just drifting off into past where they belong.

So ya, that’s what I’ve gained. Anyway have a great weekend folks, see ye on Tuesday.


What a difference a mode of transport makes.

Motorways, I fucking hate them. I truly, truly loathe them. Quite aside from the cheek of the Irish State demanding still more money from the Irish driver for using a road system, which was supposed to have been paid for by their annual motortax. You then have the sheer boredom of it all, with occasional moments of bowel loosening terror as you get to witness the inevitable, and innumerable examples of just how bad other drivers can be.

Contrast this with a totally different mode of transport. The train. Yes, I’ll freely and happily admit that CIE is a low grade form of evil, which infects, and infests all who come in contact with them. Hell I have spoken at length on that precise subject before. But for all the crap that goes with travelling Irish Rail there are some advantages.

The seats, especially on the newer trains, are often very comfortable.

The toilets, when they don’t decide to open of their own accord, or haven’t been painted liberally with someone elses diarrhea, are amazing. (Amazing for a train, let’s make that clear.)

They do run on rails, so leaving aside rare accidents like the driver falling asleep and running clean through the station at the end, you’re pretty damned unlikely to get side-swiped, by some learner fucking driver who legally shouldn’t have been there anyway.

Oh, and you can of course get a really bad cup of coffee, a dry and pretty much tasteless danish, enjoy pretty scenery (which hasn’t been levelled for construction purposes, or blocked off by embankments), and chat up the cute redhead who sat down next to you. All without having to pull over at a (in Ireland) non-existent service station.

I should make it clear that I don’t really like train travel. If I had a choice I’d travel everywhere by plane. I love flying, I even love the wait in the airport. And frankly I get a lot of joy out of headfucking the security personnel when they insist on feeling me up.

*Security guard pats down Amanda’s inner thigh.*

“mmmmm” *Amanda gasps*

*Security guard goes bright red and waves Amanda through.*

Airports are like living things, there’s a hundred stories happening there at any given moment. And I love them. Next you have the airplanes themselves. How anyone can feel anything like “meh” about flying, I’ll never understand. Think about it, you will never travel faster, or, unless you’re a certain rapper, get higher in your life. And you can get lousy coffee, lousy pastries and chat up a redhead if one happens to sit next to you. AND you do all this with two huge explosive containers strapped to the sides of your mode of transport. How is that not exciting?

But do you know what isn’t? That’s right, motorways. The scenery is at best meh, at worst non-existent. There are basically no turns. No where to pee, unless you want to use the side of the road. And no I don’t thank you, I confuse enough people without taking Miss Happy out, and tinkling like a Porn-Princess in the middle of nowhere while the country watches. They’re boring, boring, boring, bladder-bursting, boring, right up until they’re terrifying.

Learner drivers who go on to motorways should be drowned in a septic tank, the slow way.

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