Wish in one Hand, Blog in the Other

Life in Pennsylvania Coal Country was not, and is not, easy. Granted, I haven’t been a citizen of Clearfield County, Pennsylvania in almost twenty years, but I keep in close touch with people who are. When I lived there, hope was a luxury many refused to afford themselves. Their grandparents lived and died there, their parents lived and died there, and they were determined to live and die there. I can remember quite a few times my ambitions were deflated by the people of that area. At the time I thought they were being cruel, but I can now see they were trying to be merciful. They felt it was easier to be disappointed in plans falling apart as a youth, than to see dreams destroyed as an adult, and risk an entire life being wasted.

I think about that every time I make plans, or set goals. No one gets out of Pennsylvania Coal Country without a few reminders of the stay; like the miners left with reminders like black lung and missing appendages.

This blog is not meant to bring anyone down, quite the opposite! This week’s blog is dedicated to the most important question someone can ask themselves: what would you do if you rubbed a lamp and got three wishes? How was that for segue?

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Wednesday’s Child is Full of Woe

I wanted to hate Netflix’s “Wednesday.” I wanted to hate it so much that I refused to publicly discuss it until now. Truth be told, I didn’t hate it. In fact, the show inspired me to get off my ass and get my fingers back on the keyboard. What a kick in the groin that is—wanting to hate a show, only to be moved to continue honing your craft. That’s like being taught how to love by your school bully.

I’m sure I wanted to hate “Wednesday” for the same reason the fans of the 60’s series wanted to hate the 90’s Addams Family movies: it was a vast departure from the property they’d been endeared to. I can still remember plopping my happy ass on my living room floor after Trick-or-Treating to watch the Addams Family movie; the movie was the purest representation of the characterization I had. As an adult, I can recognize how narrow-minded that was of me. Beginning “Wednesday,” I had the same defeatist expectations the fans of the 60’s show had in the 90’s, the same as the fans of the cartoon strip had when the 60’s show hit the air.

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Wreddit Writes – Journal Prompts (Volume 1)

Since my last blog post, I have been beating my head against the wall trying to figure out what to blog about. I want to be more authentic, as a person, instead of just going for a cheap laugh. At the same time, I want to avoid the cliche “live, laugh, play with yourself” that I’ve come to despise. The good news is that I’ve been ingesting a steady diet of Henry Rollins interviews, so that’s going to be good for my mental well-being. But as of late, I’ve been on a sincere search of blog content to really connect with you all as my readers.

The idea hit me like a little brother who has never been grounded because their parents are too tired to actually parent. I started trolling Reddit, looking for different questions, prompts, ideas, etc. I’m thinking it’s going to be a great way to get my fingers moving and really examine myself.

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If We’re Being Honest

I looked at my blog today, with a degree of sadness. When I first started my writing career, my blog was super active, and I looked forward to my new posts hitting every week. Now, the page looks like a shell of the blog it used to be, and that makes me sad. If we’re being honest, I think there was a mental block, because I don’t know how to process the things I feel like I need to say.

There is a commercial aspect to my communication apprehension. If I type what’s on my mind, there is the very real fear that my platform may look unsavory. It’s not that the beliefs I have are unsavory, but my natural stress & anger responses to them may be. Since publishing “Broken Promise Records” in 2017, I’ve been very vocal that I wanted everyone—regardless of their size, shape, shade, beliefs, or orientation—to be able to see themselves in my work. If I were to type a manifesto about how I think people who wear green neckties should be taken out back, and shot, would that alienate people from my work. I don’t believe that, but what if I did? Blame it on ADHD, blame it on poor social skills, but I can’t just be a little angry. If I were to go on a diatribe, I would feel awful that someone saw the words I write as harmful to them.

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Panic in the 90s! (A Mother’s Love Mixed With Moral Panic)

Between the ages of five and twelve, my mother raised my kid sister and me by herself. My mother was many, many things—loving, sincere, uplifting—but chief amongst them was GULLIABLE. Bless my Mama’s heart, that woman could be talked into believing just about anything, which was extremely problematic for a single mom with two world-class wise-ass children. Mama was so gullible, she actually bought a vacuum from a door-to-door salesman, in the 1990s. My eldest sister’s favorite story to tell about my mother is that my father had my mom convinced that he could breathe through his ears, and could hold his face underwater for prolonged periods of time.

Bless. Her. Heart.

Part of the gullibility was susceptibility to the scare tactics of the media at the time. 20/20 had my mother convinced that overseas drug lords had spiked her off-brand Tylenol and she did an audit on every pill bottle in the home. There was a period of time when it felt like 90’s day-time talk show hosts were taking turns to see what absurdity they could make my mom believe next. God, I miss that woman.

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