This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“How many stoners does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None, we got lighters.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that I’m grouping under 80’s names. And what Gen X’er doesn’t remember sniffing the permanent markers accidentally left around the room by the teacher. Ok, maybe it was a little strange to those who never did this. But we Gen X’ers sniffed random markers as part of our childhood daily life.
The very first thing I noticed about this strain is that familiar aroma and taste of diesel fumes. So maybe it doesn’t exactly smell like the highly sought after ink smell but it’s one that you will remember without a doubt. The genetic line is lengthy so pay attention. This strain is a 70%/30% indica-dominant strain. The genetic cross is Biscotti x Jealousy x Sherbet BX strains. Biscotti is a cross between Gelato 25 x Sour Florida OG. Jealousy is a cross between Gelato 41 x Sherbet BX1. And finally, BX strain are a backcross Sherbet strain. And a backcross strain is s hybrid strain that is bred back to a parent strain. The main reasons this is done that I will simplify is related to particular strain trait reinforcement and genetic stability. There are other reasons but those are just a couple.
The major terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene. Patients report from such conditions as chronic fatigue, PMS, cramps, depression, mood swings, chronic stress, and PTSD. I had this strain as a vape cart. But if you like the taste of diesel you’ll sure to love this strain and its potency. This strain was voted Leafly Strain of the Year in 2023. Keep blazin’!
“I didn’t grow up in the dark ages. I grew up in the spark‑a‑fire‑with‑two‑sticks era of resilience.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Hide the breakables. Put Piper on airplane mode. Today my cats staged a full‑scale intervention. Not a gentle, “Mama, we have questions.” No. This was a feline congressional hearing.
Piper dragged a legal pad across the floor like she was subpoenaing me. Coco sat in a chair backwards like a middle‑school guidance counselor trying to relate. Tinkerbell lit a metaphorical cigarette and whispered, “Let’s begin.” And then, in perfect unison, they asked, “Mama, what was it like growing up in the 80s?”
It started like any normal morning. Piper was knocking things off shelves for cardio. Coco was judging me for existing. And Tinkerbell was staring into the middle distance like she was remembering a past life where she had fewer dependents and more emotional bandwidth.
Then Piper jumped onto the coffee table with the energy of a prosecutor who had receipts. Coco dragged a dining chair across the floor. Sat in it backwards like a youth pastor trying to be relatable and announced, “Mama we need to talk about your childhood.” Tinkerbell sighed. Crossed her paws and whispered, “Prepare yourselves. She grew up before Wi-Fi.”
The room went silent. The air thickened. Somewhere a single dial‑up modem screamed in the void. While an 8‑track tape shed a single tear. How do you explain to three modern, snack‑entitled, YouTube‑addicted cats that their mother was raised in a decade where Phones had cords long enough to lasso livestock. Music lived on ribbons that needed pencils for CPR. ADHD was treated with the “Board of Education” (a wooden paddle with tenure) Bag phones were luxury items for rich people, car dealers, and the occasional drug lord. Supervision was optional. Helmets were a myth. And childhood was basically a survival sport. And coming out as gay in the conservative South was about as safe as juggling lit fireworks in a dry barn.
So, I took a deep breath. Adjusted my imaginary shoulder pads. The emotional ones and the fashion ones and said, “Children buckle up. Mama’s about to take you on a journey through the Dark Ages.”
1. ROTARY PHONES — THE ORIGINAL TORTURE DEVICE
Piper: “So you’re telling me you had to spin the numbers? Like a wheel? Like a game show?”
Me: “Yes. And if you messed up one number, you had to start over.”
Piper: “Start over? Mama, that’s not a phone. That’s a punishment.”
Coco: “And you couldn’t text? No emojis? No memes? No sending me pictures of myself?”
Me: “Nope. You just talked.”
Coco: “Out loud? With your mouth? Barbaric.”
Tinkerbell: “Children, let her speak. She survived.”
2. CAMCORDERS — THE SHOULDER MOUNTED BEASTS
Piper: “So your parents carried around a camera the size of a microwave?”
Me: “Yes. Every dad looked like he was filming a documentary about corn.”
Coco: “And you couldn’t edit? No filters? No TikTok?”
Me: “No. You got what you got.”
Coco: “So childhood memories were raw footage?”
Me: “Exactly.”
Coco: “Unacceptable. I’m filing an HR complaint.”
3. 8‑TRACKS, CASSETTES & JAM BOXES
Piper: “So music lived on ribbons?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “And you had to rewind it? Manually?”
Me: “With a pencil.”
Piper: “A pencil? Mama, were y’all okay?”
Tinkerbell: “Back in my day, we carried burdens too. I honor your struggle.”
4. SNACKS — THE WILD WEST OF SUGAR
Coco: “What were snacks like?”
Me: “Fruit Roll-Ups that tasted like edible stickers. Kool-Aid that was 98% sugar. Chips in bags so loud they could summon the dead.”
Coco: “So chaos.”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “I would’ve thrived.”
5. TOYS — AKA STICKS
Piper: “You played with yard debris?”
Me: “Yes. Sticks were swords, guns, wands, fishing poles, and occasionally, lawsuits.”
Piper: “Was childhood a punishment?”
Me: “No. It was imagination.”
Piper: “Sounds like poverty.”
6. OUTSIDE — THE ORIGINAL OPEN-WORLD GAME
Coco: “So you were a latchkey kid?”
Me: “I wasn’t. But many of my friends were. It was the culture.”
Coco: “No adult supervision? No check-ins? No GPS? No Life360?”
Me: “Nope. We just existed.”
Coco: “That’s not childhood. That’s a documentary on resilience.”
7. THE SATANIC PANIC — WHEN EVERYTHING WAS THE DEVIL
Piper: “So adults thought everything was witchcraft?”
Tinkerbell: “Mama, what was it like being gay back then?”
Me: “Growing up gay in the conservative South wasn’t just hard. It was dangerous. It was whispered about. Prayed over. Feared. Punished. Misunderstood.So, I didn’t come out until my 30s. Which was when I finally had safety, language, and the audacity to choose myself.”
Piper: “So you had to hide who you were?”
Me: “Yes.”
Coco: “Not anymore. If anyone tries that again, I’m biting them.”
Tinkerbell: “You bloomed late because the soil was hostile. That’s not your fault.”
And then Piper knocked over a cup because emotional vulnerability makes her itchy.
10.THE BAG PHONE — THE RICH PEOPLE FLEX
Piper: “What’s a bag phone?”
Me: “A cell phone the size of a small suitcase. It lived in a giant toiletries bag.”
Coco: “Who carried that?”
Me: “Rich people. Car dealers. Maybe a drug lord.”
Piper: “So it was a phone in a purse that only wealthy people could use?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “Sounds like an Hermes collab.”
11.MENTAL HEALTH IN THE 80s — AKA ‘YOU’RE FINE, GO OUTSIDE’
Coco: “Mama, were you in therapy back then?”
Me: “No. Therapy wasn’t a thing for kids. Mental health was treated with prayer, denial, and chores.”
Piper: “What about ADHD?”
Me: “That was treated with the ‘Board of Education.’”
Piper: “What’s that?”
Me: “A wooden paddle.”
Piper: “Ma’am.”
Tinkerbell: “Corporal punishment has mostly been eliminated now.”
Me: “Back then it was Tuesday.”
12.THE PADDLE — AND YES, I GOT MANY
Coco: “Did you ever get paddled in school?”
Me: “Oh yes. Many times.”
Piper: “For what?”
Me: “Well one time me and my friends squeezed staples into tiny squares, put them on the end of pencils, and flicked them at each other.”
Coco: “Why?”
Me: “Entertainment.”
Piper: “And?”
Me: “And I misaimed and hit the football coach in the forehead with staple shrapnel.”
Piper: “Mama. That’s assault.”
Me: “It was the 80s. We called it ‘horseplay.’”
13.PENCIL BREAKING WARS — THE ORIGINAL HUNGER GAMES
Coco: “What are pencil wars?”
Me: “You’d hold your pencil and try to break someone else’s pencil with it. Champion #2 pencils only.”
Piper: “So gladiator combat but with office supplies?”
Me: “Yes.”
Piper: “I would’ve won.”
14.ERASER BURNS — THE PAIN OLYMPICS
Tinkerbell: “And what are eraser burns?”
Me: “Someone would hold your hand down and rub the eraser on your skin as hard as possible. Whoever lasted the longest won.”
Coco: “Won what?”
Me: “Respect.”
Piper: “That sounds like hazing.”
Me: “It was childhood.”
Tinkerbell: “Children were different back then.”
So yes. I grew up in the 80s. With rotary phones that spun like medieval torture wheels and doubled as cardio equipment. Phone cords long enough to strangle a small horse. Cassette tapes that needed pencils for CPR. Snacks that violated several FDA guidelines. And probably a few spiritual ones. And closets, both literal and metaphorical, that took decades to escape. I also survived pencil wars, eraser burns, chaotic childhood, the Satanic Panic, dial‑up internet, and the conservative South’s Olympic‑level repression. I didn’t come out until my 30s because the world I grew up in wasn’t safe for a gay kid. But I made it out. I made it loud. And I made it proud.
And now? I live with three cats who scream at walls. Demand snacks like they’re unionized. And interrogate me about my prehistoric upbringing like I’m a museum exhibit they did not approve the funding for. They cannot fathom a world without YouTube, Wi-Fi, or same‑day delivery. And yet here I stand, a relic of the Dark Ages. Forged in the fires of rotary phones and questionable parenting.
And somehow, this is the upgrade. Jam box blasting. Cordless phone nowhere in sight. Thanks for reading! Praise be to Gen X. What are your thoughts on the greatest decade?
Affirmation: I honor the child who survived. The adult who emerged. And the joy I refuse to apologize
“Gushers is the strain that reminds you joy doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just fruit‑flavored and waiting on you.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Today we’re calling in the spirit of Gushers. It’s the strain that tastes like somebody melted a bag of fruit snacks on the dashboard of a ’98 Corolla and somehow made it holy.
Gushers is a 60/40 indica-hybrid. Not the kind that can’t make up its mind. This one knows exactly who it is. It’s a laid‑back, fruit‑forward, body‑melting hybrid. And walks into the room wearing Crocs and still pulls focus. This strain is a cross between Gelato #41 × Triangle Kush. Gelato #41 is a cross between Sunset Sherbet × Thin Mint GSC. And Triangle Kush is a cross between Emerald Triangle OG × Hindu Kush. Gushers tastes like fruit snacks, sweet berry syrup, tropical candy, and a whisper of earthy kush on the exhale. It’s the strain equivalent of someone handing you a Capri Sun and saying, “You look like you need this.”
The terpene profile is Caryophyllene, Limonene, and Linalool. Together they create a vibe that’s equal parts candy aisle and meditation pillow. Patients reach for this strain to help with chronic stress, anxiety, mild to moderate pain, mood swings, appetite support, and end‑of‑day decompression. This is a strain that doesn’t rush you. It just hands you a blanket and says, “Baby, breathe.”
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?
Affirmation: I allow sweetness to find me. I soften. I settle. And I let my body remember ease.
“Some flavors don’t just taste good. They take you back to the version of yourself who still believed in magic.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke curl up like a memory you can almost taste. Before Blackberry Snow Cone ever hit a vape cart. Before terpenes had names I could pronounce. Before I knew what a phenotype was or why growers argued about them like SEC football. There was me. Barefoot on Mississippi gravel. And clutching a Styrofoam cup of neon‑blue snow cone like it was salvation.
One of my favorite childhood joys was standing at that tiny snow cone shack. The one with the hand‑painted menu and the fan that never actually cooled anything. Waiting for that syrupy mountain of ice. And right beside that memory sits another of walking the roadside with purple‑stained fingers. Plucking wild blackberries straight from the bramble. They were warm from the sun. Tart enough to make your jaw twitch. And sweet enough to make you forget the thorns. Blackberry Snow Cone hits both of those memories at once. Like someone bottled nostalgia. Chilled it. And handed it back to me in vapor form.
Blackberry Snow Cone is an indica-hybrid. This isn’t a widely standardized strain. But most growers trace its roots as a cross between Blackberry Kush × Snow Cone. Blackberry Kush is a cross between Afghani × Blackberry. Snow Cone is a cross between Snowman × Cherry Pie. The flavor profile consists of fresh‑picked blackberries, shaved ice sweetness, with a cool, creamy finish. It also has light herbal undertones that nod back to its Kush ancestry. It’s childhood nostalgia with grown‑folk nuance.
The terpene profile for this strain includes Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Linalool (sometimes). Patients often reach for Blackberry Snow Cone for stress, mood, mild pain and tension, creativity, focus, and anxiety. It’s the strain equivalent of sitting on a porch swing at dusk. And letting the day melt off your shoulders.
And so here we are. Grown, busy, bruised by life in all the predictable and unpredictable ways. And still chasing the same sweetness we loved before we even had words for why it mattered. Blackberry Snow Cone isn’t just a vape cart. It’s a little time machine disguised as vapor. A reminder that joy doesn’t have to be complicated to be real. Sometimes it’s just a flavor that takes you back to gravel roads, purple‑stained fingertips, and a snow cone stand that felt like church.
If a strain can carry you home and forward at the same time, this one does. Inhale. Exhale. Remember. Release. And let the world soften around the edges like melting ice on a hot Mississippi afternoon. May every hit remind you that sweetness is still out here. And waiting on you to claim it.
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?
Affirmation: I honor the sweetness in my past. The strength in my present. And the joy I allow myself to taste today.
“If August had a face, it would be sweating. Stressed. And asking for a manager.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. August has rolled up on my porch like a sweaty Jehovah’s Witness with a clipboard and a mission. And I am once again reminded that this is the month when children across the Deep South rise up as one unified voice to declare, “We don’t wanna go.” And honestly? Same.
August in Mississippi is hotter than Satan’s armpit. The air is thick enough to butter biscuits with. And every mama I know is clinging to the last threads of summer like it’s the final lifeboat off the Titanic.
Meanwhile, the school district is out here acting like we’re all supposed to be excited about “a fresh start.” A fresh start? Ma’am, I’m a middle‑aged lesbian mom in Deep South Mississippi. The only fresh start I’m getting is when I open a new stick of deodorant.
But here we are. The dog days of August. The month when backpacks reappear. Lunchboxes resurface from the underworld. And children suddenly develop medical conditions like “I can’t go to school because my soul hurts.”
And because I’m me. My Gen X DNA refuses to let me suffer in silence. I’ve decided that this entire month, my blogs will be dedicated to reflecting on what it was like growing up as an 80s kid. A feral, sunburned, unsupervised, seatbelt‑optional, rotary‑phone‑wrangling Gen Xer. Because if I’m going to survive back‑to‑school season as a middle‑aged mom in Mississippi, I might as well laugh my way through it and drag y’all with me.
This month is when school begins here in the Deep South. My kids are not excited about their education. In fact, they told me that they would prefer to learn by traveling the world. So, I asked how they plan to make that happen financially? Their response was, “Well, we have everything lined up but the money.” I asked them, “What is the best part about school?” They replied, “Going home.” So, I asked, “What’s the worst thing about school?” Now, in my day, the answer was the food. Those lunch ladies served mystery meat that could’ve doubled as building material. But my kids? Their answer was: “Going to school.”
I told them, “Well, unfortunately, it’s a law.” They asked, “Why is it a law?” I said, “The government doesn’t want a bunch of dummies running around in our country.” To which my oldest replied, without missing a beat, “Why not? They’re running around in our government.”
And listen. Did I correct him? No. I smiled like a proud mama who just witnessed a spark of critical thinking ignite in the wild. I asked, “Do you just prefer to go through life uneducated?” He said, “Yes.” And honestly? I had to respect the consistency. I wasn’t fired up about education at that age either.
One thing my daddy did with me right before school started each year was take me and my sister out to dinner to discuss the upcoming school year. Which is something I also do with my boys. However, in this economy, we go to dinner together instead of separate meals. And really, they don’t care as long as they can eat to their heart’s content.
This month I’ve decided to reminisce on my days of growing up in school and at home in the greatest decade ever. Yes, I am a Gen Xer who grew up in the 80s. And yes, even my cats need clarification on how different life was back then. If you also grew up during that time, you will enjoy this month’s sometimes hilarious memories of mine to which you can probably relate. Also, my cannabis strains this month will reflect things from the 1980s. And please. If you have any additional memories, leave a comment on this blog.
Sit back as we get through the dog days of August with a trip that is sure to bring a smile to your face and laughter in your belly. And yes, I will also mention what it’s like now being middle‑aged. Because Lord knows that’s a whole saga by itself.
Buckle up, buttercup. School is back. August is here. And I’m about to drag you through the 1980s like a kid being pulled by the arm through Kmart. We survived metal playground slides hot enough to brand cattle. Water hoses that tasted like pennies. And parents who didn’t know where we were for 12 hours at a time.
If we lived through that, we can survive back‑to‑school season, middle age, and whatever fresh nonsense August tries to throw at us. Now excuse me while I go pack lunches. Sign forms. And pretend I’m not Googling “How many days until fall break.” Bell rung. Class dismissed. Thanks for reading! What is a memory you have of going to school in the 80s?
Affirmation: “I am a resilient Gen Xer. I survived the 80s. I can survive August. And I will not be defeated by school supply lists, teenage attitudes, or the Mississippi heat.”
“You cannot squeeze a blessing into a space it has outgrown. Ask Coco, the patron saint of Delusional Geometry.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. The household spirits are restless. The ancestors are pacing. The air is thick. And Coco has once again attempted to enter a space that was not assigned to her by God, geometry, or PetSmart. What she survived was so dramatic that Piper is drafting a press release. Tinkerbell is filling out the insurance paperwork. And the tunnel itself has filed a formal complaint with HR.
This is no longer just “Coco got stuck in her play tunnel.” This is a multi‑cat crisis. A Southern Gothic domestic emergency. And according to Tinkerbell, who already has her clipboard out, “grounds for scheduling EMDR immediately.”
Coco approached her play tunnel with the confidence of a woman who has never once acknowledged her own measurements. This is the story of a cat who believed in herself far more than physics believed in her. She strutted up to that tunnel like she was about to enter the Miss Mississippi pageant. Her tail high. Confidence higher. And stared at the entrance hole. A hole that used to welcome her with open arms. She whispered to herself, “I can still fit. I’m petite. I’m aerodynamic. I’m basically a whisper.”
The entrance was giving child’s size juice box straw.Coco was giving Thanksgiving plate after seconds. She is a child powered entirely by delusion and snacks. And she shoved her head in anyway. I turned around and saw Coco halfway in and halfway out. And looking like a busted can of biscuits trying to reenact her youth. The tunnel was screaming. I was screaming. The ancestors were whispering, “Now why would she do that?”
Piper watched from the bookshelf like a sports commentator calling a disaster in real time.
Piper: “She’s going in hot. She’s going in bold. She’s going in. Oh no.”
Coco wedged herself halfway through the front half inside. Back half outside. And soul hovering above the scene like, “Girl, why?” The tunnel made a noise that can only be described as fabric begging for mercy.
Tinkerbell, the household’s eldest stateswoman, adjusted her imaginary bifocals and delivered her verdict with the authority of a woman who has lived through several eras.
Tinkerbell: “This is what happens when you ignore portion control and physics.”
Coco tried to reverse. The tunnel tried to hold on. Piper tried to film it for the group chat.
Piper: “This is content. This is Pulitzer‑level journalism.”
Tinkerbell slapped the phone out of her paw without breaking eye contact with the disaster unfolding.
Tinkerbell: “Have some respect. This is trauma.”
Halfway in, the tunnel had already said, “No ma’am.” And Coco, powered by denial, snacks, and m audacity said, “Yes ma’am.” All while physics quietly clocked out and went home. She wasn’t just stuck. Not “a little stuck.” Not “wiggle and you’re free” stuck. She was wedged, sealed, installed like a permanent appliance. Front half inside. Back half outside. Dignity nowhere in the building. The tunnel was silently screaming like a Baptist usher fanning someone who caught the Holy Ghost.
Coco looked back at me with the expression of a woman who has made a series of choices and regrets all of them. Then she began scooting backward like a Roomba having an existential crisis. And dragging the entire collapsed tunnel behind her like a furry inchworm pulling a tent through a divorce. And then, POP. Coco shot out like a cork from a champagne bottle. She stood there, stunned, fur fluffed, dignity in shambles.
Piper: “She’s gonna need therapy for this.”
Tinkerbell: “EMDR. Immediately. Maybe a support group.”
Coco paced the living room and glancing back at the collapsed tunnel like it owed her money, rent, and emotional damages. Piper, ever the dramatist, placed a tiny paw on Coco’s shoulder and delivered her diagnosis with the gravity of a daytime talk‑show therapist.
Piper: “Sweetie, what you experienced is called a ‘somatic blockage.’ You need to process that.”
Tinkerbell, who absolutely did not have a clipboard five minutes ago, produced one anyway and began taking notes like she was preparing Coco’s case for the state board.
Tinkerbell: “I’ll call the therapist. We’ll get you scheduled for EMDR. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. For tunnel‑related trauma.”
Coco blinked slowly, still dissociating.
Coco: “Will snacks be provided?”
Tinkerbell: “It’s therapy, not a potluck.”
And honestly, she needed it. Before this moment of post‑traumatic reflection, I had tried to help her. She had tried to help herself. And the tunnel had tried, bless its heart, to mind its business. But Coco, in her panic, began that frantic backward scoot. The one that looks like she’s trying to reverse a U‑Haul with no mirrors. The tunnel came with her. The whole thing. Like a denim skirt that’s too tight but you refuse to size up.
And that, congregation, is how Coco outgrew her tunnel. Her pride and possibly her entire sense of self. The tunnel fought. Coco lost. And we are officially filing this incident under “Lessons in Humility, Volume III.” Piper is already writing a memoir. Tinkerbell is coordinating post‑incident care. And the tunnel has filed for disability and spiritual leave. Coco is preparing to process her trauma one eye movement at a time. Because you truly cannot squeeze a blessing into a space it has outgrown. Ashes to ashes, tunnels to dust. Service dismissed. Thanks for reading! And cut back on the snacks.
Affirmation: I release what no longer fits. I honor what I’ve outgrown. And I refuse to shrink for anyone. Not even a tunnel.
“The first time I smoked, I didn’t get high, but I did end up going to McDonald’s.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk to you about the strain known as Zookies by Max Harvest
Instantly this strain makes an impact. Some strains might be slow to take effect, but this one doesn’t. Let’s look at the genetics. Zookies is a 50/50 hybrid cross between Animal Cookies x Gorilla Glue #4. Animal cookies is a cross of Girl Scout Cookies x Fire OG. Gorilla Glue #4 is a cross between Chem’s Sister x Sour Dubb x Chocolate Diesel.
This strain is loaded with terpenes such as Caryophyllene, Limonene, Myrcene, Linalool and Humulene. The medical benefits include relief from insomnia, chronic pain, depression, muscle spasms, cramps, nausea, and appetite loss. This strain lives up to it’s reputation as an overall great strain. The indica side of this strain is very potent. However, there’s enough sativa to still be able to be productive. But use in moderation as “couch lock” is possible and happening as I write. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’
“Some cats bury their poop. Some cats bury their feelings. And some cats bury nothing at all. And that’s why we sage the house.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we are not cleansing the house. We are not cleansing the ancestors. We are cleansing my spirit from the psychological warfare my own cat has waged against me by refusing to cover her poop in the litterbox. I’m convinced at this point she is missing a chromosome, a gene, a strand of DNA, or a spiritual download. She is missing something that tells normal cats, “Hey girl, bury that.” But not her. Oh no. She drops her little war crime in the sand like she’s signing the Declaration of Independence. Then she just walks away. Tail high. Proud. Unbothered. A menace.
And right on cue. Like the people-pleasing, co-dependent child of a Southern family who’s been trained since birth to “fix it before company sees.” Here comes Coco. Covering it. Cleaning it. Smoothing the sand like she’s prepping a grave at a mafia funeral. I swear I heard her sigh once. A deep, exhausted, “Lord give me strength” sigh. The sigh of a cat who has accepted her role as the emotional support janitor of this household.
Let’s break this down like a Discovery Channel documentary narrated by a woman who has simply had enough.
Exhibit A: The Offending Cat Named Tinkerbell
She walks into the litterbox like she’s clocking in for a shift she didn’t want. Poops. Stares into the void. Leaves. No attempt. No paw twitch. No sand shuffle. Just vibes and disrespect.
Exhibit B: The One Situation Only People-Pleasing, Co-dependent Cat Named Coco
She hears and smells the poop hit the air. Materializes from the shadows. Looks at me like, “I got it, Mama. She ain’t right.” Covers it with the urgency of a woman hiding evidence before the sheriff arrives.
EXHIBIT C: Piper-The Chaos Intern Who Thinks She Runs HR
Now listen. We cannot talk about litterbox dynamics in this household without acknowledging Piper, my chaotic, dramatic, emotionally unstable daughter who behaves like she’s the lead actress in a telenovela about feline suffering. Piper does not simply enter a room. She arrives. She makes an entrance like she’s descending a staircase at the Met Gala. Even if she’s just coming from the water bowl. And when it comes to the litterbox? Oh, she has notes.
Piper will stand at the edge of the box like a Victorian governess inspecting the servants’ work. She squints. She judges. She sighs dramatically, as if the weight of this family’s dysfunction rests solely on her tiny shoulders.
But she will yell about the smell. Yell about the mess. Yell about the other cats’ technique. Yell because she enjoys yelling. And yell because she believes the world is her stage and the litterbox is her spotlight. Piper is the kind of cat who would file an HR complaint about the litterbox conditions. She is the Beyoncé of unnecessary drama. She is the Shakespeare of overreaction. She is the Southern aunt who faints at the family reunion because someone used the wrong potato salad recipe. She will also supervise the people‑pleasing cat as she covers it. While offering commentary like, “You missed a spot, darling. Mama deserves better.” Piper is chaos. Piper is theater. Piper is the reason I sage the house twice a week.
Exhibit D: Me
I’m standing there like a disappointed Southern aunt at a church potluck whispering, “Now why would you do that in front of company.” At this point, I’m ready to submit Tinks DNA to 23 and Meow. Because something ain’t firing. Something ain’t connecting. Something in her ancestral lineage said, “We don’t bury things. We leave them out, so the world knows we were here.” Ma’am, this is not the Oregon Trail. You are not marking territory for rival mountain lions. You are a house cat with a heated blanket and a dental plan.
Tink: “I don’t feel called to cover my poop. It’s not aligned with my spirit.”
Coco: “Your spirit is funky.”
Tink: “Maybe the world needs to sit with my truth.”
Coco: “Your truth smells like sin.”
Piper: “Tink, you need remedial litterbox training.
Me: “All of y’all need Jesus and a job.”
Let’s be honest. Every Southern household has at least one family member who leaves chaos behind. And another who quietly cleans it up, so the neighbors don’t talk. My cats are simply reenacting generational trauma in the litterbox.
And let me tell you something before I go refill the sage bowl and pray for patience. I have made peace with the fact that one of my cats is simply not spiritually assigned to cover her poop. She is a free thinker. A disruptor. A pioneer in the field of “I don’t care what y’all do, I’m doing me.” She is the Rosa Parks of refusing to bury anything. She said, “My poop will not be moved,” and history will remember her.
But the real hero. The unsung, overworked, underappreciated backbone of this household is the “one situation only” people‑pleasing Coco who keeps covering it. Every. Single. Time. She is the Southern grandmother reincarnated. She is the fixer. The smoother. The one who whispers, “Lord, don’t let the neighbors see this mess.” While sweeping the sand like she’s preparing the church fellowship hall for revival.
And me? I’m just standing there watching generational patterns play out in clumps of Tidy Cats. And realizing that even in the animal kingdom, somebody always ends up cleaning up after the family member who “just ain’t right.”
So, here’s the truth. The revelation. The altar call. If my non‑covering cat ever decides to bury her poop, I will know the world is ending. I will know the veil has lifted. I will know the ancestors have intervened directly. Until then, I will continue to light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. And accept that some souls were put on this earth to leave their mess out in the open. And some souls were put here to cover it before company arrives.
If reincarnation is real, I hope my poop-not-covering cat comes back as a woman in a Southern family. Then she will finally understand what it feels like when someone else has to clean up your mess.
And that, my friends, is the litterbox prophecy. May it bless you and convict you. Litter scooped. Spirit cleansed. Thanks for reading! And Tink Cover Your Poop! Does anyone else experience this?
Affirmation: I release the burdens that are not mine to clean. Even when they smell like they might be.
“Sometimes the medicine isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet that heals you.”
-The Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re calling in that one cousin who always shows up with a folding chair and a story. It’s all to witness the power of a strain called Hammerhead. And what a perfect strain to kick off Shark Week.
Hammerhead is an indica-dominant strain. It’s a cross between White Rhino × Hashplant. White Rhino is a cross between White Widow × an unknown North American Indica. Hashplant is a cross between an Afghan Landrace × Northern Lights. This lineage is basically the Mount Rushmore of heavy hitters. They are stoic, powerful, and ready to put you in a meditative trance. This strain is the kind that tucks you in. Hums a lullaby. And tells your anxiety to go sit in the corner.
It hits the sesh like a deep‑sea creature rising from the abyss. It’s slow, heavy, and absolutely unbothered by your earthly concerns. This one is for the folks who want to clock out of reality. And clock into a weighted‑blanket‑for-the-soul kind of night. The flavor profile has notes of earthy sweetness, pine resin, and herbal musk. Hammerhead tastes like a woodland nap you didn’t know you needed.
The terpene profile consists of Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Together, they create a terpene trio that whispers, “Sit down. Drink some water. Let go.” Hammerhead is beloved for its ability to help with chronic pain, Insomnia, stress, anxiety, and muscle spasms. This is the strain you call when your brain is doing too much, and your body is doing too little.
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?
Affirmation: I release the weight I was never meant to carry. And I welcome rest without guilt.
“Some folks chase sweetness. I chase the kind of gas that makes the room reconsider its life choices.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re summoning the spirits of pure, uncut GAS. The strains that smell like somebody parked a diesel truck inside a citrus grove and left it idling through the Rapture.
Below is the Budtender Moment guide to the gassiest classics. And the new‑school 2026 heavy hitters. And they have enough funk to peel paint off a double‑wide. I am someone who truly loves the stinkiest strains available. The ones that hit your nose like a spiritual slap from the universe. And yes, I know they’re almost always indica‑dominant. And yes, I still run toward them like they’re handing out free emotional stability at the door. But here’s the truth. That stink is where I find the most relief.
I personally love that diesel‑fuel flavor. The kind of taste that makes you wonder if you should be smoking it or checking it for an oil leak. That’s nothing more than personal preference. But it’s my preference. And these are also the strains that make other people’s heads whip around like, “Ewwwww. What is that smell?” To which I reply, with the confidence of a Southern auntie blessing the potluck table, “That’s the beautiful smell of healing, sweetheart. Don’t be rude.” Sometimes I even add, “If your weed doesn’t smell like a truck stop bathroom during a Nascar weekend, I don’t want it.”
Gas is not a smell. It’s a warning label. It’s the terpene equivalent of your uncle’s truck backfiring during Sunday service. It’s the aroma that tells you, “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere for a minute.” And in 2026, gas is back with a vengeance. Candy strains still run the TikTok crowd. But the real heads? They’re hunting for diesel, skunk, rubber, fuel, and straight‑up chemical warfare. Let’s get into it.
The Gassiest Strains of 2026 (Plus the Classics That Built the Church)
The classic gas gods are the strains that walked so the new exotics could run.
OG Kush (Chemdawg × (Lemon Thai × Hindu Kush)
It is the grandfather of modern gas. Earthy, piney, fuel‑soaked, and attitude heavy. If OG Kush were a person, it would be a retired mechanic who still wins bar fights. Why it’s still top tier? Perfect balance of body melt + mental clarity. That unmistakable fuel‑pine punch. And the backbone of half the strains on the market.
Sour Diesel (Chemdawg × Super Skunk)
It is the strain that smells like someone spilled jet fuel on a lemon. Energetic, cerebral, and loud enough to get you kicked out of a library. Why it endures? Fast‑acting uplift. Iconic diesel nose. And the blueprint for modern sativas with bite.
It is the chemical spill that started a dynasty. Sharp, funky, pungent kind of smell that makes new smokers ask, “Is it supposed to smell like that?” Why it’s legendary? It’s a parent of Sour D, OG Kush, and countless 2026 exotics. It has heavy potency. And is pure gas from start to finish.
Is sticky, funky, rubbery, and strong enough to glue you to the couch like a failed DIY project. Why it’s still a favorite? It’s a resin monster. It provides deep relaxation. And that classic rubber‑meets‑diesel aroma.
These are the new school strains carrying the torch. And lighting it with a blowtorch. Get ready for the some of the newest funk on the market.
GMO (Garlic Cookies) ( Girl Scout Cookies × Chemdawg)
GMO is still the undisputed king of “my God, what is that smell?” Garlic, gas, funk, and a little bit of “did someone leave food in the car?” Why it’s huge in 2026? It has sky‑high potency. It has that unmistakable savory‑fuel profile. And hash makers worship it.
Gumbo (Gummo × Guru)
Gumbo is the strain that said, “Candy is cute, but let’s get weird again.” Savory, funky, gassy, and loud. Why it’s hot in 2026? It has that unique terp profile. Heavy body effects. And is a leader in the “funk comeback” movement.
Hash Burger (Han Solo Burger × (Hash Plant × Larry OG)
Hash Burger smells like someone grilled a burger on a diesel generator. Savory, earthy, fuel‑rich, and resinous. Why it’s trending? It’s built for hash. Those deep, relaxing effects. And a terp profile that punches first and apologizes never.
Gorilla Breath (Gorilla Glue #4 × OGKB)
A modern hybrid that blends classic gas with sweet undertones. Think OG Kush meets a rubber tire shop. Why it’s rising? Because of its balanced potency. It’s very loud aroma. And perfect for people who want gas with a little dessert.
Motorbreath (Chemdawg × SFV OG Kush)
If you want straight fuel, no fruit, no candy, no nonsense. Motorbreath is your strain. Why 2026 loves it? It’s pure diesel. The very heavy effects. And a favorite among old‑school heads.
Gas isn’t just a terp profile. It’s a personality type. It’s a lifestyle. And a spiritual alignment. Gas never left. It just waited for the candy craze to calm down. And in 2026, the real heads are circling back to the strains that smell like a mechanic shop, a truck stop, and a citrus grove had a love child. These are the strains that built the culture. Shaped the genetics. And still slap harder than your grandma’s “I told you not to touch that” backhand. Gas is for the people who don’t need their weed to taste like a cupcake or a tropical smoothie. Gas is for the folks who want their flower to announce itself like a Southern auntie walking into a room with a fresh wig and a louder opinion.
May your jars stay loud. Your grinders stay sticky. Your terps stay funky. Your gas stay premium. May your stash always lean toward the strains that tell the truth. The ones that smell like a mechanic shop on a July afternoon. Like a tire fire behind a Waffle House. Like somebody spilled jet fuel on a stack of church fans and said, “Yep. That’s the one.” And may your nose stay blessed with the kind of diesel funk that makes strangers in the parking lot turn around and say, “Lord, who brought that?”
In this house, we don’t chase trends. We chase truth, terpenes, and the kind of diesel that clears a room and heals a soul. And if you’re here reading this and nodding along. And smelling imaginary diesel in the air. Then you already know. The future of cannabis isn’t sweet. It’s funky. It’s rubbery. It’s chemical. It’s loud.
So, roll it up, spark it slow, and let the ancestors of OG, Chem, and Sour whisper their wisdom through the smoke. In 2026 and beyond, one truth remains eternal. Candy fades. Trends die. But gas? Gas is forever. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’
Affirmation:I honor what heals me. Even if it smells like a truck stop exorcism. My relief is sacred. My preference is valid. And my gas is premium.
This Puzzled Life 