b3ta.com user Samara Morgan
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Profile for Samara Morgan:
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I'm a 24-year-old slacker, currently attempting to give good advice to drug addicts on a regular basis.

World's greatest procrastinator. Freakishly good memory. Slytherin. Dubiously talented writer of gay erotica. Unhelpful problem with authority. Self-saboteur extraordinaire.

I like shiny things, harry potter, dr house, csi, coffee, making spider noises at my mother, marks and spencers crisps and pointless risk taking.

Apparently, I'm nerdier than 71% of people. Probably true.

That is all.

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» The Credit Crunch

The recent economic situation is affecting me thus: it is unleashing a catfucking TIDAL WAVE of unmitigated RAGE at the mere mention of the phrase 'credit crunch'.

Seriously. I am not an angry person. Usually.

Last week, I was in an Indian restaurant with a friend - a very good friend of 11 years, intelligent, reasonable, lovely woman - however.

"I'm not ordering a starter," she says (fair enough). "I'm skint." (eyelid starts to twitch). "Because of the credit crunch," she adds.

"Nnnngggggggg," is the sound I make. Just before I explode. "Please don't say that."

"What? Credit crunch?"

"Ack! It's a recession. Why are people afraid to say recession? RECESSION!"


"If I was to go on a killing spree tomorrow and call it a Happy Knife Carnival would that make it more socially acceptable? Or how about, not arse-rape, but Surprising Bum Fun?!"

"Probably not. Sam, you're shouting. People are looking."

At which point I realise that I have managed to reduce the two neighbouring tables (families with kids...oops) and a frankly terrified-looking waiter to complete silence with my ranting. I smile nicely and wipe the foam from my mouth. My friend, thankfully, is used to me and just starts talking about something else.

Thus, having logged in to look at the new QOTW, I was, let's say...rather unimpressed. It's amazing how much rage one can create on one's own in a small room. *smiles serenely*

Recessions are bad, I get it. I'm fortunate. I rent, I have no debts and (legitimately) get incapacity benefits. Some people are not so fortunate. Ok. Can we have a cheerier question now, please?

(Fri 23rd Jan 2009, 4:37, More)

» Cringe!

Aged 15, staying at my then-girlfriend's house for the week. Her parents have been told that I am a 'friend' and accordingly have set up camp bed for me in her room.

Which we were decidedly not using when her mother walked in without knocking.

Cringe point 1 - being caught naked, legs akimbo, clearly enjoying myself at the hands (quite literally) of her supposedly straight daughter.

Cringe point 2 - spending the rest of the week with gf's mother refusing to make eye contact with me, speak to me or in fact even refer to me by my name. Instead, she took to describing me as 'Emma's lesbian friend.'

Thus: "Emma, would your lesbian friend like a cup of tea?"

Gf, unfortunately, couldn't have found it more hilarious. Wish I could say I had some clever retort to fire back, but no. 15-year-old me simply gave her evils when her back was turned.

(Sun 30th Nov 2008, 23:30, More)

» Ignoring Instructions

Do not feed the birds
Nine years old, opening night of my first (and last) amateur dramatics production. Despite suffering from a rather nasty stomach bug all day, I was determined the show would go on! Waiting in the wings to go on for the number that involved my solo (whose idea that was is still beyond me), things took a turn for the worse. The director tapped me on the shoulder and advised me to go and have a sit down, preferably in the direction of the toilets, as I was looking decidedly peaky.

Unfortunately I took this to mean 'run onto the stage, collapse to your knees right at the front holding your stomach and projectile vomit disturbingly orange crap into the orchestra'.

I thought it a nice touch that the rest of the cast still launched into a rousing rendition of 'Feed the Birds'.
(Tue 9th May 2006, 12:40, More)

» Putting the Fun in Funeral

A strange one
One of my strangest experiences so far was the funeral of my next-door neighbour when I was 17. He was a grandad, grew tomatoes in his back garden, was well liked by all the neighbours, you get the picture. The church was full, my mum and I sat in the second row right behind his wife and listened while the vicar spoke at length about his life, what a wonderful family man he was and how he'd be greatly missed. Not by me however as the dirty old bastard had seen fit to make my life hell by regularly touching me up etc between the ages of about six and 12, when he'd lost interest. Unfortunately due to the fact that no one but me knew this, and I was still living at home at the time, I had to go to the funeral.

I just remember it being the strangest mix of emotions - I couldn't decide if I was glad the bastard was dead or disappointed with myself that I'd never told anyone and let him get away with it, or angry that his suffering was over even though he'd left me with painfully low self esteem and various other issues that still affect me today (cheers mate). In the end I think I just sat there staring into the back of wifey's head and trying not to lose it. I made it, too, although there was a bit of a close moment when my mum leaned over, squeezed my hand and said 'it's a shame isn't it? At least he's had a good life.'

She still doesn't know to this day and that makes me feel sick with guilt.

That's not a very nice story is it, sorry. Back with kittens and happy trees soon.

Apologies for length and killing the mood a bit.
(Thu 11th May 2006, 15:51, More)

» Addicted

Secret Shame
There is the whole alcoholism, drug addiction tale of woe. *sigh* Debt, health problems, clinical depression, a very dodgy relationship, casual sex, alienation of friends of family. General life fuck-up-age. Nasty detox, 9 months residential rehab...etc etc. Job's a good 'un!

I still smoke, and have a wallet-bashing Blue Hawaiian habit (that's coffee, not some new-fangled narcotic)

However. My secret shame is thus.

My name is Samara Morgan and I am a slash addict.

Yep. Though I'm otherwise a pretty normal, intelligent, functioning member of society, I am addicted to reading and writing gay fanfiction.

I'm a huge fan of CSI (Vegas, not the crappy spinoffs) and about a year ago was faffing about on a CSI-related site when I stumbled across this stuff. Most of it horribly written, with excruciatingly bad characterization, poor spelling, formatting and grammar that made my eyes bleed.

Fuck this, thought I. I could do better than this shite! *gets biro and pad and starts scribbling away*

Turns out I was right. Turns out, in fact, that I am a *Fucking A* slash writer. Dubious talent...? I have a good grasp of the English language, a creative mind and a very anal attention to detail regarding character. Apparently, it's all you need.

Trouble is, almost without my permission, I've become completely involved with this stuff. I regularly turn out 30,000 word epics. I edit work for other writers. I am the most heavily reviewed writer on, um, a site that shall remain nameless.*cough* I was disturbingly pleased to be nominated for fanfic awards this year.

What started as a pointless self-challenge/temporary diversion has completely taken over my free time. When I'm not writing or reading, I'm thinking up plots (oh yeah, my stuff has plot, it's not all low-grade porn) and scribbling down bits of dialogue on anything that stays still for long enough. I think my 'oh fuck, I'm an addict' moment was at my best friend's wedding in August this year. I was at the evening do, watching everyone else get drunk when I suddenly had a stab of inspiration for the story I was in the middle of writing. In my anxiety not to forget it, I scuttled into the toilets with a napkin and a pen and spent ten minutes making notes.

For those not in the know (sane people, I suppose), reviews/comments are gold in the fanfic world, and the level of excitement I feel when checking my email inbox for review alerts absolutely sickens me. I have been known to sit there going F5 F5 F5 after posting something new. I have, on occasion, stayed up all night to finish something that is only going to be read by people I have never and will never meet.

I have tried to stop, but a day without my laptop makes me so miserable that no one can stand to be around me. Once I power up the laptop, it's like a Pavlov's dog-style conditioned response.

I literally can't stop. Simple psychology tells me that I probably have a basic need for reassurance, and that the feedback culture involved has set me on a never ending reward-loop, but the truth is...

...I really fucking love it.

Click 'i like this' if you think I need a 12-step based intervention.
(Tue 23rd Dec 2008, 22:41, More)
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