This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that brings back the fond memories of the 1980’s. And how many of us Gen X individuals could ever forget the movie Karate Kid? Mr. Miyagi, Daniel Laruso, and his redemption from being the one who was bullied. To the one who showed us what hard work, trust and discipline could accomplish by the ultimate underdog.
Cobra Chi #2 is a 70/30 sativa-dominant hybrid that is a cross of Margwa #1 x Chimera #3. Margwa #1 is a strain that is not publicly documented. Therefore, I don’t have a direct lineage for this strain. Chimera #3 is a balanced hybrid cross between Chimera x White Truffle. Looking at these genetics Margwa #1 must have a sativa-dominance in its genetics somewhere.
The top terpenes for this strain are D-Limonene, Linalool, Myrcene, and Caryophyllene. Patients report relief from conditions such as chronic stress, chronic pain, depression, migraines, mood swings, ADD/ADHD, headaches, and nausea. This strain, in my opinion, is very mild. And it is a strain that can be enjoyed by all. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
Affirmation: I water myself from the bottom up to grow deep roots like a strong mother plant.
“Our childhood wasn’t supervised. It was witnessed.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Bless the yard. We’re summoning the spirits of a generation raised on asbestos, sugar, and unmonitored chaos. A generation that survived childhoods so reckless they now qualify as folklore. Welcome to Growing Up in the 80s: A Survival Guide for the Barely Supervised. It’s where the toys were weapons. The adults were tired. And the safety standards were “Godspeed, child.” Get comfortable while we take a stroll through the hilarity of growing up Gen X in the 1980s.
Playgrounds: Where Childhood Went To Die.
The playground wasn’t a place to have fun. It was a government‑approved death trap. The metal slide? Forged in the fires of Mount Doom. By noon it was hot enough to brand cattle. You’d climb up. Sit down. And immediately lose three layers of thigh skin. And the equipment? Not equipment. Artifacts. One day a giant industrial truck tire would just appear. No explanation. No installation. Just a 400‑pound rubber monolith that rolled off an 18‑wheeler and onto the playground like, “Here. Climb inside this tomb and see what happens.”
I cannot end this part without mentioning the merry‑go‑round. It was a device clearly invented by someone who wanted to test the limits of the human skull. This wasn’t the cute, slow, musical carousel at the mall. No. This was a rusted metal centrifuge powered entirely by children with no impulse control. You’d hop on. Hold the bar with sweaty little hands and pray. The moment the older kids grabbed the rails and started running, you were no longer a participant. You were payload.
They’d spin that thing so fast your soul would leave your body and hover above the playground like, “Welp. This is how we meet Jesus.” If you lost your grip? You were slung off in a blaze of glory. Bouncing across the gravel like a loose hubcap on I‑10, while collecting rocks, dirt, and possibly a mild concussion.
And the adults? They didn’t intervene. They didn’t slow it down. They didn’t even look concerned. They’d just shrug and say, “That’s why you hold on tighter next time.” Meanwhile, the teachers assigned to playground duty were spiritually absent. You could be actively being decapitated. And they’d shout from across the field,“ If you’re bleeding, go to the office!”
Lawn Darts
Lawn darts were literal spears marketed as toys. You’d throw them into the sky and pray they didn’t come down in your skull. Parents watched from lawn chairs. And were drinking Tab and saying, “Be careful!” As if that would stop a 2‑pound metal projectile from piercing your femur.
Halloween: The Budget Was $3 and a Prayer
Our costumes were plastic trash bags with a picture of the character printed on the front. And a mask that smelled like melted crayons and carbon monoxide. The eye holes were never aligned with actual human eyes. So, we trick‑or‑treated like drunk raccoons bumping into mailboxes.
And the horror movies? Low‑budget masterpieces. Special effects made from ketchup packets and someone’s uncle’s old Halloween wig. But we watched them anyway. Because we were latchkey kids with no adult supervision. And a VCR that ate tapes like a hungry goat.
The Rotary Phone: A Weapon, A Workout, A Trap
Kids today will never know the terror of dialing a friend whose number had multiple 9s in it. You’d start dialing at 3 PM and finish sometime around dusk. And that phone cord? It could stretch from the kitchen. Through the living room. Out the front door. Down the driveway. And halfway to the neighbor’s house. Then it would wrap around your body like a boa constrictor with a grudge. And would drag you to the floor while your mom yelled, “Don’t you dare hang up! I’m talking to Aunt Sarah.”
Cigarette Smoke Everywhere
The 80s smelled like nicotine, Aqua Net, and generational denial. Restaurants had “smoking” and “non‑smoking” sections separated by a single fern. Airplanes had smoking sections. Hospitals had smoking sections. Your pediatrician? He’d walk in with a cigarette and say, “Your lungs sound tight.” Sir, I wonder why.
Tv Antennas
If you wanted to watch cartoons, someone had to climb onto the roof. Usually a child. Your dad would yell, “Turn it a smidge!” All while you clung to the chimney like a tiny lineman in a lightning storm. You would say, “Is it better now?” And they would reply, “No, you made it worse!” You were one gust of wind away from meeting Jesus.
Cereal With Enough Sugar To Stop A Hummingbird’s Heart
Our cereal wasn’t “part of a balanced breakfast.” It was diabetes in a box. The milk at the bottom turned into neon syrup that could power a small generator. And the commercials promised superpowers, speed, and happiness. They were all lies, but delicious ones.
Riding In The Back Of Pickup Trucks
Seatbelts? Not in the back of a truck. We’d bounce around like human popcorn. While our friend’s dad took corners at 40 mph. We waved at strangers like we were the Grand Marshals of the Unsupervised Children’s Parade.
Public Pools
Swimming in an 80s public pool was already a gamble. Public pools were cloudy cauldrons of mystery. You couldn’t see your own legs. The bottom was a rumor. And the smell of chlorine could peel paint off a Buick. You’d inevitably bump into something and pray it wasn’t a Band‑Aid or a rogue diaper.
But every now and then, the universe would spice things up with a code‑brown catastrophe. You’d be dog‑paddling through that murky soup. When suddenly the lifeguard, a sunburned 16‑year‑old, who hadn’t cared about anything all day. And would rather die than get in the water. Would suddenly come alive. They’d blow their whistle like they were signaling the end times, waving their arms, and screaming, “Everybody Out! Everybody Out Now!”
And then you’d see it. Floating. Majestic. Unbothered. A lone turd drifting across the surface like it was the captain of its own ship. And charting a course straight through the deep end. Kids would scatter. And they were climbing out of the pool like panicked wet cats. Slipping. Screaming. And traumatized. Moms would grab their children like they were rescuing them from a burning building. And the lifeguard? They’d stand there. Whistle still in their mouth. And staring at the water like, “I don’t get paid enough for this.” We didn’t have sharks in pools. We had floaters.
Mosquito Trucks & Ice Cream Trucks
Southern summer evenings in the 80s had two sacred sounds. The jingle of the ice cream truck. And the low, ominous rumble of the mosquito truck rolling through the neighborhood like a mobile cancer dispenser. The mosquito truck would creep down the street. While spraying a thick, white fog of chemicals so potent it could kill a roach at 50 yards. And what did we do? We ran toward it.
We’d get two steps from the bumper. Arms outstretched. And inhaling that cloud like it was the breath of life itself. Kids today have essential oils and organic bug spray. We had government‑issued carcinogens and the lung capacity of Olympians. We’d dance in that fog like feral woodland spirits. Coughing, laughing, and probably shaving five years off our lifespan. While our parents stood on the porch waving like, “Y’all stay where we can see you!”
And then. The moment the fog cleared. The ice cream truck would appear like a reward for surviving the chemical baptism. We’d sprint toward it. Pockets full of sweaty quarters. Ready to buy a popsicle shaped like a cartoon character whose eyes were always crooked. And whose flavor was “red.” Poison cloud, then ice cream. A perfect system.
Stranger Danger Training
Our entire safety curriculum was, “Don’t get in a van.” That was it. Then they’d send us outside for 10 hours with no supervision, no sunscreen, and no water bottle. We roamed the neighborhood like feral raccoons with bikes. And helping ourselves to anyone’s yard that had a visible garden hose.
No YouTube, No Cell Phones, No Dollar Tree
My 10‑year‑old hears this and acts like I grew up in the prehistoric era. Back in my day, if you wanted to learn something, you had to ask a grown‑up (who might lie). Ask a friend (who would definitely lie). Or check the encyclopedia (which was older than your grandma). And Dollar Tree? Didn’t exist. If you wanted cheap toys. You had to wait for a gas station to put something on clearance. Usually because it had faded into a new color.
The Satanic Panic: Southern Edition
The South in the 80s was convinced the devil lived in rock music, Dungeons & Dragons, black clothing, and Halloween, Oh, and anyone who didn’t go to church three times a week. You couldn’t even be friends with a Methodist without someone whispering, “Don’t you go sellin’ your soul now.”
Big Hair Bands
Men wore eyeliner, leather pants, and hair so teased it could block a doorway. Nobody questioned it. We said, “This is masculinity. This is art. This is culture.” And then there was R&B. Those songs were so sensual you needed birth control just to listen to them. You’d be nine years old hearing lyrics that made you blush and wonder if you needed to talk to a priest.
Nature As Weaponry
We didn’t have Nerf guns. We had sticks. Sticks that became Spears, Rifles, Swords, Magic wands, and occasionally, a snake. We played cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and dramatic death scenes worthy of an Oscar.
Childhood Mental Health Was A Mythical Concept
If you were stressed, anxious, or overwhelmed, adults said, “Go outside.” “Stop crying.” “You’re fine.” “Kids don’t get stressed.” Meanwhile, we were out here processing trauma with a Capri Sun and a bike with no brakes.
Prank Calls
Before caller ID, we were chaos. We’d flip through the phone book. Which was an actual book. And call someone named Margarita to ask if her husband was Jack Daniels and her dog was Tequila. Or we’d call strangers at 1 AM and ask, “Do you know how to cook a blueberry pie?” And we did all this sober. Because we had to create our own fun without electronics.
Cameras
Taking pictures was a gamble. You’d take 24 photos. Wait three weeks. Pay $12.99. And discover blurry faces and closed eyes. Sometimes thumbs over the lens. A strange photobombing. Or the entire roll blank because someone forgot to load the film. There was no delete button. Just shame.
And now here we are. Veterans of the 80s. We have scars both physical and emotional. And needing therapy where we now have to process our entire lives. All while trying to survive our own children. Who now need hydration schedules, emotional check‑ins, and sunscreen applied with the precision of a NASA engineer. We watch helicopter moms circling the playground. Adjusting knee pads. Putting toddlers on leashes. And we just smile. Because we know the truth. We survived the 80s. We can survive anything. Even this. Thanks for reading! And I hope this was the brightest spot of your day. Please leave a comment about other hilarious things from the 80’s that we Gen X might remember.
Affirmation: I honor the feral resilience that raised me. I survived metal slides, mosquito fog, and lawn‑dart warfare. So, today’s challenges don’t scare me. I am built from grit, humor, and pure Gen X immortality.
“Weed is the friend that doesn’t mind if you cancel plans.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a cannabis strain called Apples and Bananas. Nothing says spring time and fresh fruit like this strain.
Apples and Bananas is an indica-dominant balanced hybrid that is a four-way cross between Platinum Cookies x Grandaddy Purple x Blue Power x Gelati. Platinum Cookies is a cross between OG Kush x Durban Poison. Grandaddy Purple is a cross between Purple Urkle x Big Bud. Blue Power is a cross between Sour Double x Master Kush x The White x Blue Moonshine. Gelati is a cross between Gelato x Biscotti. This strain is simply sweet and fruity.
The top terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Limonene, and Caryophyllene. Other combinations of this strain also have Linalool in them. Patients report relief from conditions such as anxiety, depression, stress, insomnia, appetite loss, nausea, muscle spasms, cramps, PTSD and pain. The effects for me seem indica dominant. However, try it for yourself and watch the stress melt away. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
“Some strains whisper. Neon Berry walks in wearing sequins and introduces itself to everybody.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re stepping into the neon glow. The kind of berry‑sweet, electric‑hearted strain that feels like a gas‑station slushie and a cosmic prophecy had a baby. Welcome to this Budtender Moment as I highlight the strain Neon Berry.
Neon Berry is a sativa‑dominant hybrid. It’s the kind that lifts your chin. Straightens your aura. And tells your anxiety to go sit in the car with the windows cracked. It is a cross between Blueberry × Strawberry Cough. Blueberry is a cross between Afghani × Thai. Strawberry Cough is a cross between Haze × a mystery strawberry cultivar whispered about like a church‑lady scandal. This is berry lineage with a passport and a past.
The taste profile for this strain is a blue raspberry slushie from a gas station that definitely has a ghost. Strawberry Pop Rocks with a cool, minty exhale that feels like someone just opened the freezer door on your soul. And a faint candy‑shell sweetness that lingers like gossip.
The top terpenes in this strain are Limonene, Myrcene, Pinene, and Caryophyllene. Together they create a bright, effervescent, berry‑electric cloud. Patients look for this strain for mood elevation, stress relief, creative focus, mild pain relief, and social ease.
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. There 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 joy to be loud, bright, and berry‑flavored. I glow without apology.
“Surviving the 80s school bus didn’t build character. It built trauma with personality.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today, we’re boarding the 1980s American School Bus. It was a federally unregulated steel tube of chaos where survival was not guaranteed. And a diesel‑fumed gladiator arena where the laws of physics, child safety, and basic human supervision went to die. Supervision was theoretical. The driver’s only job was to operate the vehicle and mind her own business with Olympic‑level commitment.
Let me tell you something. That bus wasn’t transportation. It was a mobile Hunger Games with upholstery. And my bus driver? Lord. I was convinced she was loud, evil, and possibly sent from the underworld on a federally funded mission. She didn’t smile. She didn’t blink. She didn’t look back. She just drove that bus like she was hauling moonshine across county lines. And the sheriff was on her tail. If you survived an 80s school bus, congratulations. You are legally allowed to complain about anything for the rest of your natural life.
First of all, seatbelts did not exist. Not one. Not a suggestion. Not a strap. Not even a decorative buckle. The entire bus was a loose‑meat sandwich of children sliding around like we were in a human‑sized Shake ’n Bake bag. Every turn? We shifted three rows to the left like a single organism. Every pothole? We hit the ceiling like popcorn kernels. And the bus driver never, not once, checked on us. She could’ve hit a whole family of raccoons, a mailbox, and a small Methodist church, and she would’ve just kept going. While sipping her gas‑station coffee like, “Not my business.” No supervision. None. Zero.
The only adult on that bus was the driver. And she had spiritually clocked out sometime around 1974. If a fight broke out, she didn’t intervene. If a child was dangling out the window like a Golden Retriever in a pickup truck, she didn’t intervene. If someone lit a Pop‑Tart on fire in the back row, she didn’t intervene. She just yelled, “Sit down!” At whom? At what? For what reason? Unclear.
And the back row? The back row was Fight Club, Lord of the Flies, and WWE SummerSlam all rolled into one. That was where the older kids sat. The kids who had already seen things. Done things. And possibly committed light felonies. If you sat back there before age twelve, that was on you. You were either brave, stupid, or trying to impress someone who could absolutely beat you up.
Meanwhile, I’m in the middle rows clutching my Trapper Keeper like a life raft. And praying the driver doesn’t hit a curve too hard and send me into the aisle like a loose ham.
My bus driver, specifically? This woman had one volume, screaming. She yelled every word like she was calling hogs from three counties over. She didn’t turn her head. She didn’t use the mirror. She didn’t even acknowledge our existence unless we were breathing too loud. I was convinced she was evil. Not regular evil. Biblical evil. Like she had been personally trained by the Old Testament. She’d slam the brakes. We’d all go airborne. And she’d shout, “I told y’all to sit still!” Ma’am, gravity is doing its best. We are children. Not sandbags.
Here’s to the 80s school bus. A metal death rattle on wheels that was piloted by a woman who absolutely did not care if we lived. Died. Or formed a small militia in the back row. We were launched. Bruised. Unsupervised. And spiritually abandoned. But we made it. And now we get to watch modern parents buckle their kids into five‑point harnesses like they’re preparing them for space travel.
Meanwhile, we’re over here like, “I survived a bus ride where a kid named Travis tried to staple my hair to the seat. And the driver didn’t even slow down.” Godspeed to us all. And God bless the helicopter moms. They’d never last five minutes on Bus 8. Thanks for reading! Do you have any specific memories of riding a bus in the 80’s?
Affirmation: I am strong. I am stable. And I will not be emotionally triggered by the smell of diesel fuel and vinyl seats.
“Healing doesn’t always whisper. Sometimes it shows up loud, sweet, and ready to shift the whole room.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors lean in. OG Pop Tartz is one of those strains that walks in the room like, “Y’all ready for a little mischief and a little medicine?”
OG Pop Tartz comes from a lineage that feels like a family reunion where everybody brought something loud to the table. It’s a cross between Lemon Cake × Sour Apple. Lemon Cake is a cross between Lemon Skunk × Cheese. Sour Apple is a cross between Sour Diesel × Cinderella 99. This is a strain built from families who don’t whisper. They testify.
Despite the name, this isn’t a sugary breakfast pastry. OG Pop Tartz tastes like tart fruit on the inhale. A little diesel on the back end. Some sweet citrus peel. And a warm, earthy finish that feels like a porch swing at dusk. It’s bright, funky, and layered. It’s like a Pop-Tart made by someone’s weed‑growing uncle who refuses to follow the recipe.
The terpene profile is a trio that hits like a Southern choir harmony. Major terpenes are Limonene, Caryophyllene and Myrcene. And depending on the grow, you may also catch hints of Linalool or Humulene, but the core trio stays steady.
Patients often reach for OG Pop Tartz for mood elevation, stress relief, mild-to-moderate pain management, creative focus, social ease, and appetite support. It’s functional without being frantic. Soothing without being sedating. And a middle‑path strain for folks who need clarity with comfort.
A Colorado-grown batch might lean sharper and more citrus-forward. A West Coast batch may come in sweeter, fruitier, and more relaxed. A Southern grow? Expect funk, density, and terps that cling to your shirt like gossip. Same genetics. Different expression. And just like cousins raised in different households. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin’.
Affirmation: I honor the version of myself that is growing. Unfolding. And expressing differently in every season. And it’s just like the plant.
“If the 80s taught me anything, it’s that danger builds character. And apparently more trust than modern governance.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. We’re about to smoke out some truth hotter than a Mississippi July with no AC and a broken ceiling fan. I’m talking about the 1980s. The era where children were basically raised by asbestos, sugar, and unregulated chaos. And somehow all ten of these hazards still feel more reliable than anything coming out of the current administration. According to what many people online joke about when comparing political frustrations to nostalgic dangers. So, buckle up. Preferably with a seatbelt that doesn’t lock. Fray. Or snap like the ones we had in ’84.
10 Dangerous Things From the 80s I Trust More Than the Current Administration
1. Metal Playgrounds That Reached the Temperature of Satan’s Forehead
Those slides would sear the skin clean off your thighs. But at least they were consistent. Predictable. Honest. They said, “Climb me and you will suffer.” And they delivered every time.
2. Lawn Darts
The 80s handed children spears and said, “Go outside.” And you know what? Those spears had more accountability than anything happening in Washington.
3. Station Wagons With No Seatbelts in the Back
We rolled around like loose produce in a grocery sack. But somehow we survived. Meanwhile, some people online say they feel like modern political decision-making is the real crash hazard.
4. The Original Easy-Bake Oven
Powered by a literal light bulb hot enough to melt a Barbie leg. And yet? Still felt safer than certain policy rollouts.
5. Tang
A powdered beverage that tasted like citrus-flavored drywall. But it never pretended to be anything else. A level of transparency many folks online wish they saw more often.
6. Those Giant Wooden Cable Spools We Used as Furniture
Splinters? Absolutely. Structural integrity? Questionable. But they held up better than some public promises.
7. Slip ’N Slides on Concrete
We didn’t have lush lawns. We had optimism and a hose. And even that felt like a more thought-out plan than some national strategies people complain about.
8. The McDonald’s Play Place Ball Pit
A microbial swamp of mystery fluids and lost socks. But at least the danger was visible. Tangible. Honest.
9. 80s Hair-Spray Clouds
We walked through enough aerosol to punch a hole in the ozone layer. But at least Aquanet never flip-flopped on its mission. It would hold that hair like your life depends on it.
10. The Sears Catalog Weight Set
Rusty. Questionable. Missing instructions. But it still felt more stable than the vibes coming out of D.C., according to many frustrated folks.
And that’s it. Ten relics of 80s chaos that could’ve taken us out at any moment. Metal slides that branded our thighs. Lawn darts that doubled as medieval weaponry. And Slip ’N Slides that were basically chiropractic roulette. And somehow, all that reckless nostalgia still feels sturdier than the national decision-making process folks online love to fuss about. If that ain’t Southern truth wrapped in neon spandex, I don’t know what is.
Let me tell you something. If surviving the 80s taught us anything, it’s that we were forged in a lawless era where children drank from garden hoses. Rode in the back of pickup trucks doing 70 on a gravel road. And ate popsicles that tasted like freezer burn and lead paint. We were raised by chaos, negligence, and whatever was on sale at K‑Mart. And somehow we still came out sturdier than the governmental circus folks keep hollering about these days.
Here’s the truth wrapped in a biscuit. The 80s didn’t pretend to protect us. They didn’t pat us on the head and say, “We’ve got this under control.” They didn’t hand us a flaming lawn dart and call it “innovative policy.” No, ma’am. The 80s looked us dead in the eye and said, “Listen, this might kill you. Good luck.” And honestly? That level of transparency feels downright refreshing compared to the current vibes.
So yes. Give me the metal slides, asbestos ceiling tiles, the unregulated fireworks, the neon‑soaked danger, the questionable snacks, the ozone‑destroying hair spray, and the Slip ’N Slide that doubled as a chiropractic emergency. At least those threats were honest. At least those hazards didn’t smile in my face while tripping me from behind.
And if that stings, light the charcoal. Because truth always cooks hotter than the grill. Now excuse me while I go pour myself a glass of sweet tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon. And pray for the strength of an 80s kid who survived Tang, lawn darts, and Reaganomics. Because apparently we’re gonna need it.Now pass me the charcoal. I’ve got more truth to smoke out.Mic dropped so hard it cracked the linoleum. Thanks for reading! What is your opinion?
Affirmation: I move through this world with the confidence of an 80s kid who survived. My resilience is vintage. My sass is eternal. And my trust is reserved for things that actually earn it.
“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.
This Puzzled Life 