darnold1975

Why Every 80s Kid Was One Bad Decision Away From A Lifetime Movie Plot

“If the 80s didn’t kill me. Your opinion definitely won’t.”

-This Puzzled life

Light the charcoal. If we’re gonna talk about the 80s, we need smoke, drama, and at least one angelic visitation from a Southern Baptist church lady clutching a casserole. And whisper‑praying for our souls.

I had barely struck the match when Piper strutted in like she was auditioning for RuPaul’s Drag Race: Feline Edition. Coco followed. She was rolling her eyes so hard she saw her own brain. Tinkerbell arrived last. She was carrying the emotional weight of someone who lived through dial‑up internet. And refuses to talk about it.

Piper: “Mama, tell us again how y’all used to chase the mosquito‑spraying truck like it was the ice cream man.” 

Me: “Baby, that was our version of aromatherapy.” 

Coco: “So you willingly ran toward poison?” 

Me: “Yes, and we called it summer.”

Tinkerbell: “Lord have mercy. Y’all were one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie called ‘Bless Her Heart: The Dana Story.’” 

Piper: “Was this before or after you realized you were gay?” 

Me: “Before. But the signs were there. I had a favorite Golden Girl.” 

Coco: “Which one?” 

Me: “Dorothy.” 

Tinkerbell: “Yeah, that tracks.”

The charcoal popped. The cats stared. And I knew it was time to confess the truth. 80s childhood wasn’t a vibe. It was a survival sport.

Look, kids today have helmets, GPS trackers, and parents who Google things like “Is this safe?” We had none of that. We had vibes and the Lord’s protection. Which was honestly stretched thin. He was also busy dealing with televangelists, Reaganomics, and every Southern mama praying for her gay child without knowing why.

UNSUPERVISED BIKE RIDES

We rode bikes miles away from home with no water, no sunscreen, and no adult supervision. If you got lost, you didn’t call anyone. You just accepted your new life in the woods like a feral pioneer child.

THE MOSQUITO TRUCK

Modern kids run from danger. We ran toward it. That fog rolled down the street like a Stephen King villain and we said, “Oh goodie, free mist!”

THE SNACKS

We ate plastic‑wrapped cheese. Kool‑Aid with enough sugar to stop a grown man’s heart. Bologna that had a rainbow sheen. And popsicles that tasted like lead paint and joy.

THE PARENTING STYLE

Southern parents in the 80s didn’t “supervise.” They announced. “Be home by dark.” That was it. No follow‑up questions. No safety plan. Just vibes and Jesus.

THE GAY PART

Growing up gay in the conservative South was like being a unicorn in a deer stand. You knew you were magical. But you also knew you needed to stay quiet, or someone’s mee-maw would try to pray the glitter out of you.

Meanwhile, my cats listened to all this like they were taking notes for a documentary.

Piper: “So basically, y’all were raised by chaos and pesticides.” 

Coco: “And shame. Don’t forget the shame.”

Tinkerbell: “Honestly, it explains everything.”

So yes. Every 80s kid was one bad decision away from a Lifetime movie plot. We survived poison fog. Unsupervised adventures. Snacks that violated FDA guidelines. And Southern Christianity’s “We love you but also don’t ask questions” energy.

Let me tell you something right now. Standing here in my Mississippi kitchen with three judgmental cats and the ghost of every Southern church lady who ever side‑eyed my existence hovering over my left shoulder like a passive‑aggressive guardian angel.

We, the 80s kids, should not be alive. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. I mean biologically, medically, scientifically, and according to every modern parenting blog written by someone named Brittany who packs organic snacks in BPA‑free containers.

We were raised in an era where seatbelts were “optional suggestions.” Bike helmets were “for the weak.” And the mosquito truck was “community enrichment.” We were one bad decision away from starring in a Lifetime movie titled “Bless Her Heart: The Dana Chronicles” or “Raised By Pesticides” or “Southern Gay Survival Story.” Take your pick.

And while we were out there inhaling poison fog like it was Chanel No. 5, our Southern Christian parents were inside praying hedge‑of‑protection prayers so thick they could’ve been used as insulation. Not that they knew what we were doing. They thought we were “playing outside.” Ma’am, we were reenacting Lord of the Flies with bicycles and no adult supervision.

Meanwhile, I was also quietly navigating the spiritual obstacle course of being a gay kid in the conservative South. Which meant I was simultaneously dodging mosquito fog, emotional repression, and Sister Linda’s unsolicited prophecy that “the Lord has a special plan for you.” And he did. It involved glitter and sarcasm.

And now? Now we’re grown. We pay bills. We raise kids. We have opinions about grout. We have survived everything from Reagan to dial‑up to purity culture. To the fact that our childhood snacks were made of 40% petroleum byproduct.

My cats watched me deliver this sermon like I was testifying in the Church of Chaotic Upbringing.

Piper: “Mama, you’re not just a miracle. You’re a franchise.” 

Coco: “Honestly, you should’ve come with a warning label.” 

Tinkerbell: “Or a Lifetime contract.”

And here’s the mic‑drop truth. The gospel according to every 80s kid who lived through the fog, the freedom, the foolishness, and the fundamentalist fearmongering. We just didn’t survive the 80s. We outlived the 80s. We walked through the valley of mosquito spray and came out moisturized. We endured the shame, the chaos, the bologna with the rainbow sheen, and the Southern Christian guilt that could crush a lesser mortal. We are the chosen ones. The anointed. The pesticide‑kissed prophets of resilience.

So, if anyone tries to tell you you’re “too much,” just smile sweetly. Bless their heart and remember, “You survived an entire decade that tried to kill you with fog machines, sugar, and Jesus.” They can’t handle you. They’re not qualified to handle you. You are a walking Lifetime movie with better hair and boundaries. Charcoal still burning. Cats applauding silently in judgmental solidarity. Thanks for reading! How do you remember the 80s?

Affirmation: I am resilient. I am fabulous. And I survived the 80s. Nothing can stop me except maybe gluten.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Mad Max Strain Review

“Some strains whisper. Mad Maxx kicks the door in and asks who’s been messing with the thermostat.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Now listen. The moment I opened the jar of Mad Maxx, the air shifted like somebody had just walked in with breaking news and a personal vendetta. This strain didn’t just smell loud. It filed a noise complaint against me.

It came out the container with the exact energy of a Mississippi woman in a gas station parking lot saying, “I ain’t tryin’ to start nothin.’ But I will finish it.” Before I even sparked it, my living room turned into a full‑blown post‑apocalyptic swap meet run by people who own too many power tools and absolutely no fear. Somewhere in the distance, an engine revved like the universe was preparing me for a plot twist.

Mad Maxx is a 60/40 sativa-hybrid that does not believe in easing you into anything. It’s a strain that is a cross between  Amnesia Haze × Top 44. Amnesia is a Haze is a sativa‑dominant hybrid created from a blend of classic landrace lines of Jamaican Sativa, South Asian Sativa, Afghani (Indica), Hawaiian, Cambodian and Thai. Top 44 is a cross between Skunk #1 × Viking.

It hits like someone handed your nervous system a leather jacket and said, “Drive ’til the nonsense stops.” The flavor profile includes diesel, earthy, and a whisper of “I should not be operating machinery.” And The undertones of “I’m about to reorganize my entire life at 2 a.m.”

The effects of this strain are like a euphoria that feels like outrunning a dust storm. Focus sharp enough to alphabetize intrusive thoughts. Creativity that whispers, “What if we built something dangerous but useful.” And a mood elevation strong enough to survive a family group text.

The top terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Limonene. Patients report relief from stress relief, pain reduction, emotional resilience, and people who say, “I’ll be fine” and absolutely are not.

Mad Maxx is the strain you smoke when you want to feel like you just survived a dust storm, won a bar fight you didn’t start, and processed your entire childhood. All before the biscuits finish browning. If you’re looking for delicate, subtle, floral energy, this is not your strain. This is the one that kicks the saloon doors of your brain open and hollers: “Who’s ready for some character development?”

Mad Maxx is your new spiritual advisor, life coach, and emotional support warlord. Minus the paperwork. Please keep in mind that each grow will be different and the flower’s effects will differ depending on which region of the country that the plant is grown.Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’

Affirmation: “I can handle whatever today throws at me like dust storms, plot twists, and all. I stay grounded, I stay steady, and I finish what I start.”

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

The 80s Living Room: A Museum of Heavy Furniture and Electrical Hazards

“Lord, protect me from the furniture my mama bought in 1987.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today we’re stepping into the 80s living room. A sacred Southern space where décor went to die. Electrical hazards thrived. And Jesus watched over everything from a crocheted wall hanging. If you grew up in a conservative Christian household in the Deep South, you already know. The living room wasn’t just a room. It was a museum, a memorial, and occasionally a crime scene when the TV remote went missing.

This was the era when furniture weighed more than a Dodge Ram. Lamps hummed like they were praying in tongues. And every outlet was so overloaded it crackled like it was speaking in Morse code. And yet? We survived. Barefoot. Unsurprised. And unmonitored.

Let’s take a guided tour through the 80s living room. The place where we learned faith, fear, and fire safety all at once.

10 Exhibits From the 80s Living Room Museum

1. The Wood Paneling That Absorbed All Light

Dark. Heavy. Oppressive. It looked like the inside of Noah’s Ark. But it smelled like a bowling alley. 

Comment: If depression had a texture, it was 80s wood paneling.

2. The Giant Console TV That Could Crush a Buick

This thing wasn’t a TV. It was a piece of furniture. You didn’t move it. You built your life around it. 

Comment: If it fell on you, the obituary would simply say “natural causes.”

3. Lamps That Hummed Like They Were Summoning Angels

Every lamp buzzed. Flickered. And radiated heat like it was powered by prayer alone.

Comment: You didn’t turn these lamps on. You activated them.

4. The Plastic Couch Covers That Tried to Kill Us

Your thighs stuck. Your soul stuck. Standing up required strength, courage, and a running start. 

Comment: Southern sanctification through suffocation.

5. The Coffee Table With Razor‑Sharp Corners

Made of glass, metal, and vengeance. 

Comment: Every Southern child has a scar shaped like this table.

6. The Ashtray That Weighed 14 Pounds

Even if nobody smoked, there was an ashtray big enough to bury a hamster in.

Comment: It doubled as a weapon during family arguments.

7. The Doily Army

Every surface had a doily. Every doily had another doily under it. 

Comment: Southern moms believed lace prevented demons.

8. The Encyclopedia Set No One Ever Used

Twenty‑six volumes of pure, untouched knowledge. 

Comment: We used them as booster seats and spiritual coasters.

9. The Overloaded Power Strip of Doom

TV, VCR, lamp, fan, Christmas lights, and the Holy Spirit all plugged into one outlet. 

Comment: Fire hazard? Yes. Blessed? Also, yes.

10. The Velvet Jesus Portrait

Hung slightly crooked. Eyes followed you. Judged you. Loved you. 

Comment: The original Ring camera.

And that, is why the 80s living room deserves its own wing in the Smithsonian. It was a place of danger, devotion, and décor choices that can only be explained by tax season stress and the JC Penney catalog. We grew up dodging sharp corners. Humming lamps. TVs that could flatten livestock. And now we’re out here raising kids who think danger is a gluten‑free snack. If you survived an 80s living room, you can survive anything. Including adulthood, church potlucks, and whatever the HOA is mad about this week. Thanks for reading! Are there other things that you remember?

Affirmation: I walk boldly through life with the confidence of a child who survived an 80s living room.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Ice Cream Lights Strain Review

“Some strains quiet the room. Ice Cream Lights quiets the soul.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re calling in a strain that feels like somebody took a summer carnival, a neon-lit ice cream truck, and a cosmic daydream and churned them all together until they glowed. The strain is Ice Cream Lights.

Ice Cream Lights is an indica-dominant hybrid. The kind that doesn’t knock you out. But absolutely tells you to sit down somewhere and hush. This strain is a cross between Ice Cream Cake × Northern Lights. Ice Cream Cake is a cross between Gelato #33 × Wedding Cake. Northern Lights is a cross of Afghani Landrace × Thai Landrace. This is dessert-meets-ancestral-medicine-cabinet energy. Sweetness from the Gelato line, grounding from the Afghani roots, and that unmistakable Northern Lights hush-your-spirit glow.

Ice Cream Lights tastes like someone froze a vanilla bean cloud. Dipped it in sugar crystals. And then waved it over a pine forest at dusk. Expect the tastes of vanilla cream, sweet dough, light pine, and a cool, almost minty exhale. It’s dessert-forward without being sticky, and the finish is clean enough to make you go back for a second hit just to confirm you didn’t imagine it.

The terpene profile for this strain is Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Linalool. Together they create that “I’m not high. I’m just vibing in 4K resolution” effect. Ice Cream Lights is a comfort strain. It’s the kind you reach for when your nervous system is acting like it’s late for church. Patients report getting relief from stress, anxiety, mild-to-moderate pain, muscle tension, mood, and sleep support without immediate sedation. Perfect for the end of a long day when you want to feel like a human again. Not a frantic tumbleweed rolling through life.

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 soften. I settle. I glow from the inside out. My peace is non-negotiable.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Sorbet Haze Strain Review

“What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a refreshing strain called Sorbet Haze.

Sorbet Haze is considered an indica-dominant hybrid. It is believed to be a phenotype of Sunset Sherbert. And there is also an idea that this strain may contain the genetics of Purple Push Pop x  Jealousy, Ice Cream Cake x Sunset Sherbet Bx1 x Jealousy F2, or Sherbert Bx1 x Gelato 41. However, the exact genetics are unknown. The minute the inhale hits you, it’s nothing but a fruity creaminess that invades your taste buds.

Top Terpenes for this strain are B-Caryophyllene, Linalool, Limonene, Myrcene, and Humulene. Patients report relief from anxiety, stress, and PTSD. This strain is very similar to the strain Triple Scoop. But this one is an all-around great tasting and nice potency. Please keep in mind that each grow will be different and the flower’s effects, terpenes and genetics will slightly differ depending on which region of the country that the plant is grown. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’

Affirmation: I choose presence, not escape.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Fentanyl Awareness: Denial Isn’t a Life-Saving Strategy

“Awareness isn’t comfortable, but neither is grief. Choose the discomfort that saves lives.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re talking about Fentanyl Awareness. And Lord knows some folks need more than sage. They need a whole spiritual intervention. A PowerPoint and maybe a smack from an ancestor with a wooden spoon.

We’re still living in a world where people think fentanyl is something that happens to “other families,” “other communities,” or “those people over there.” Fentanyl doesn’t care about your zip code. Your Bible study attendance record. Or how many casseroles you’ve delivered to the church potluck. It is an equal-opportunity destroyer. And yet, some folks still clutch their pearls and say, “Well, if people didn’t do drugs.” Sweetheart, if ignorance burned calories, half this country would be runway-ready.

Fentanyl isn’t a moral issue. It’s a public health crisis. A grief generator. And a silent killer that slips into communities like humidity in Mississippi. It comes uninvited. Suffocating. And everywhere. But sure, let’s keep pretending it’s just a “bad choice” problem. And just for shits and giggles, I’ll say that bombing people in fishing boats that are clearly are not transporting this substance is not an answer to the problem.

Fentanyl doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready to have your life rearranged. It shows up like a tornado in the middle of a sunny day. It’s fast. Violent. And leaves you standing in the wreckage while wondering how the hell everything changed in seconds.

People aren’t overdosing because they’re weak. They’re overdosing because fentanyl is 50 times stronger than heroin. And 100 times stronger than morphine. They’re overdosing because it’s being mixed into substances without their knowledge. They’re overdosing because the world is heavy. Trauma is real. And coping mechanisms don’t magically appear with a bow on top.

But try telling that to the folks who think addiction is a “willpower issue.” These are the same people who can’t resist a clearance sale at Hobby Lobby. But somehow believe others should resist a chemically engineered substance designed to hijack the brain.

Addiction is not a character flaw. It’s not a spiritual failure. It’s not a lack of discipline. It’s a medical condition. A trauma response. And sometimes a desperate attempt to feel anything other than pain.

And fentanyl? It’s the predator waiting in the shadows. Families are burying children. Parents are burying parents. Communities are burying potential futures and dreams. And still some folks would rather cling to judgment than compassion. Because compassion requires effort. Judgment is free and easy like drive-thru theology.

So, here’s the truth that’s wrapped in Southern sass and tied with a bow of reality. Fentanyl doesn’t care about your opinions. It doesn’t care about your politics. It doesn’t care about your moral superiority complex. But we should care. We should care enough to talk about it. We should care enough to educate ourselves. We should care enough to stop pretending this crisis is happening in some faraway land to people we’ll never meet.

Fentanyl is already here. It’s in our towns, our schools, families, and our communities. And pretending otherwise won’t save a single life. And for the love of all things holy, open your eyes. Denial has never saved anyone. Awareness does. Compassion does. Action does. Try not to trip over it on your way back to reality. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I choose compassion over judgment. Truth over denial. And awareness over silence. My voice matters. And so does every life touched by this crisis.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Frozen Lemonade Strain Review

“Sometimes the medicine tastes like lemons. Because the universe knows you need waking up.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re stepping into the frosty, citrus‑blessed kingdom of Frozen Lemonade. It’s the strain that tastes like somebody froze summertime just to keep you from losing your mind in this economy.

Frozen Lemonade is a sativa-dominant hybrid. It’s a cross between  Lemon Tree × Gelato #41. Lemon Tree is a cross between  Lemon Skunk × Sour Diesel. Gelato #41 is a cross between  Sunset Sherbet × Thin Mint GSC. It’s the strain that behaves like the friend who shows up uninvited but brings snacks. Emotional support. And a Bluetooth speaker. She’s bright. She’s uplifting. And she’s got just enough body relaxation to keep you from pacing the kitchen like a raccoon with bills. Frozen Lemonade didn’t just appear. he was engineered by the ancestors. This lineage is basically the Beyoncé family tree of cannabis. It’s excellence is stacked on excellence.

The flavor profile of this strain is one of Icy lemon zest, Sugared citrus peel, A faint creamy finish, and a sparkle of sour brightness. It’s the strain equivalent of sticking your head in the freezer during a Southern summer and whispering, “Lord, take the heat from me.”

The terpene profile for this strain is Limonene, Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Together they create a bright, sparkling, lemon-ice vibe that wakes up the spirit without sending you into orbit. Frozen Lemonade is a blessing for stress, mood, mild pain, focus, clarity, and energy. It’s the strain you reach for when you need to get your life together but also want to enjoy the process.

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 rise refreshed. Renewed. And rooted. It’s bright as citrus. Steady as ice. And fully in my power.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The 80s Mall: Our Natural Habitat and Emotional Support Ecosystem

“The 80s mall didn’t just raise us. It emotionally stabilized us better than half the adults in our lives.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today we are not merely remembering the 80s mall. We are summoning it. Resurrecting it. And calling it forth like a neon‑soaked ancestral spirit guide wearing leg warmers. And chewing Bubble Yum with the confidence of someone who has never once read a nutrition label.

The 80s mall wasn’t just a building. It was a biosphere, a social laboratory, a feral ecosystem where children roamed free like denim‑clad gazelles. It was the one place where your mama could drop you off with five dollars, a scrunchie, and a warning about “not acting a fool.” And somehow that was considered responsible parenting. The mall raised us. The mall fed us. The mall taught us that independence meant walking around unsupervised for eight hours. And only calling home if someone sprained an ankle or got lost in Sears.

It was our emotional support ecosystem before emotional support ecosystems were a thing. It was therapy before therapy. It was cardio before cardio. It was church before church. It was TikTok before TikTok. Except instead of filters, we had Glamour Shots. Instead of algorithms, we had the food court. So let us honor the fluorescent kingdom that shaped our souls, our fashion sense, and our questionable decision‑making skills.

10 Things That Made the 80s Mall Our Emotional Support Ecosystem

  • The Food Court-A culinary fever dream where you could eat Sbarro pizza, teriyaki chicken, and a pretzel the size of a Buick hubcap. It was the original “choose your fighter” screen.
  • Spencer’s Gifts-The forbidden forest of the mall. You went in for a lava lamp and came out spiritually changed. Slightly confused. And carrying a rubber chicken.
  • The Arcade-A dimly lit cave where boys communicated through grunts. Button‑mashing. And the sacred ritual of slapping quarters on the machine to claim next game.
  • Glamour Shots-The place where every Southern girl became a feather‑haired deity. You walked in looking like a child. And walked out looking like you were about to release a country album.
  • Orange Julius-A beverage so mysterious it defied science. Was it juice? Was it foam? Was it industrial insulation? We didn’t ask questions.
  • The Mall Fountain-A shimmering lagoon of wishes, pennies, and the occasional toddler shoe. It was our emotional support water feature.
  • The Perfume Counter-A chemical assault zone where you were spritzed against your will by a woman named Linda who smelled like Chanel No. 5 and authority.
  • The Record Store-A sanctuary where we pretended to understand music genres. And, also, judged strangers based on their cassette choices.
  • The Mall Walkers-The elders who power‑walked at dawn like they were training for mall‑based combat. They were the backbone of mall society.
  • The Payphone Bank-Our hotline to Mama. Our emergency broadcast system. Our “Jessica is being dramatic again, please retrieve me” communication hub.

The 80s mall wasn’t just a place. It was a multisensory emotional support habitat engineered to keep us alive. Entertained. And slightly overstimulated. The moment those sliding glass doors whooshed open, you were hit with a wall of smells like popcorn, perfume, pretzels, and the faint scent of a RadioShack employee losing the will to live.

The mall was where we learned economics (“If I buy this sticker pack, I will not have enough money for a slice of pizza”), sociology (“If I walk past the cute boys three times, they will eventually notice me”), and survival (“If I get lost in JCPenney, I must follow the sound of the escalator until I reach civilization”).

It was also where we learned fashion. Which is why so many of our childhood photos look like we were raised by a pack of neon‑obsessed raccoons. We wore shoulder pads big enough to pick up satellite signals. We wore jelly shoes that blistered our feet into oblivion. We wore outfits that could blind a man at twenty paces.

And the mall didn’t just shape us. It healed us. Had a bad day at school? Go to the mall. Got dumped by your 7th‑grade boyfriend? Go to the mall. Needed to feel the warm embrace of consumerism? Go to the mall. Needed to walk around aimlessly for six hours because your mama said, “go play”? Go to the mall. The mall was our coping mechanism. Our sanctuary. Our ecosystem of emotional regulation and questionable snacks. And honestly? We turned out fine. Mostly.

And now, here we stand. Grown. Exhausted. Over‑scheduled adults. Who can barely get through a Target run without needing a nap and a hydration break. Meanwhile, our children act like going to a store is a war crime. They clutch their tablets like emotional support rodents. And look at us like we’re asking them to churn butter.

But us? We were forged in the fluorescent crucible of the 80s mall. We survived unsupervised freedom. Orange Julius sugar crashes. And the psychological warfare of the perfume counter. We navigated the labyrinth of Sears without GPS. We endured Glamour Shots bangs that could slice through drywall. We walked uphill both ways in jelly shoes that were basically medieval torture devices.

We are the generation that learned resilience from a food court. And emotional regulation from a mall fountain. We are the children of neon, tile floors, and Cinnabon steam. We are unbreakable. We are unstoppable. We are mall‑raised. Mall‑blessed. Mall‑forged warriors. And may the spirit of the mall walkers guide our steps forever.

Affirmation: I am grounded. I am centered. I am guided by the neon glow of my ancestors and protected by the mall walkers at dawn.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Rick James Strain Review

“I’m not high. I’m just on airplane mode.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that will instantly take you back to the 80s. And the name is Rick James.

Rick James is a 70/30 indica-dominant hybrid. It is a cross between Runtz x Jealousy. Runtz is a cross between Zkittlez x Gelato. Jealousy is a cross between Gelato 41 x Sherbet Bx1. This strain was named this because 710 Labs notes are named after the legendary. The flavor profile is creamy, sugary, fresh fruity berries, rich red fruits, and dank herbs. The whole experience was a pleasant surprise. And though it didn’t make me a “Super Freak”, I still enjoyed the ride.

Top terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene, Linalool, and Pinene. Patients report relief from chronic pain, anxiety, stress, and insomnia. This strain has some hard-core munchies to go with it. And beware of “couch lock. “Please keep in mind that each grow will be different and the flower’s effects will differ depending on which region of the country that the plant is grown. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’

Affirmation:  I release tension, fear, and the stories that weigh me down.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Why 80s Snacks Were Delicious, Toxic, and Probably Illegal Now

“Childhood in the 80s wasn’t safe. But it was flavorful.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up the radioactive, neon‑dust‑covered, FDA‑defying buffet that raised us. The 1980s didn’t just feed us snacks. They fed us character development. They fed us resilience. They fed us enough artificial dyes to glow like a Chernobyl nightlight. And we ate it up with our bare hands. Because nobody in that decade had ever uttered the phrase “Is that safe for children?”

Back then, snacks weren’t “organic,” “non‑GMO,” or “ethically sourced.” They were chaos in a foil pouch. They were chemical warfare disguised as lunchbox joy. They were delicious, toxic, and probably illegal now. And I miss them every day like a long‑lost cousin who stole my bike but taught me how to cuss. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane. But wear protective gear. The 80s snack aisle was basically a Superfund site with better branding.

  1. Planters Cheez Balls-The neon‑orange dust that stained your fingers for three to five business days. If you touched a white wall afterward, it looked like a crime scene at a clown convention.
  2. Fruit Roll‑Ups (Original Formula)-Essentially edible plastic wrap with a whisper of fruit. If you left it in the sun, it melted into a sheet of stained glass that could double as a weapon.
  3. Jolt Cola-Two cups of coffee, a Red Bull, and a dare from Satan all mixed into one can. This drink raised your heart rate and your GPA.
  4. Pop Rocks-Carbonated gravel. The snack that convinced an entire generation we might explode at any moment. And we still ate it by the fistful.
  5. Dunkaroos-Cookies you dipped into frosting so sweet it could sandblast your enamel. A dentist’s retirement plan in a single pack.
  6. Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape-Six feet of gum. Which was exactly five feet and eleven inches more than any child needed. We chewed it until our jaws locked like a rusty hinge.
  7. Slush Puppie-A cup of shaved ice drowned in syrup so bright it could guide ships through fog. One sip and your tongue changed colors like a mood ring.
  8. Hostess Pudding Pies-A pastry filled with custard that tasted like it had been stored in a bunker since the Cold War. We didn’t care. We inhaled them.
  9. Tato Skins-Potato chips that were basically salt slabs. One bag could dehydrate a camel.
  10. Hi‑C Ecto Cooler-A citrus drink so green it looked radioactive. Probably was. Delicious though.

And that’s it. The snacks that built our immune systems, our personalities, and possibly our future medical bills. We were raised on sugar, dye, caffeine, and vibes. No one checked labels. No one asked questions. If it glowed, fizzed, popped, or came in a pouch that looked like it was designed by a hyperactive raccoon, we ate it. Meanwhile, today’s kids are out here with gluten‑free, dye‑free, sugar‑free, joy‑free snacks shaped like clouds and promises. Bless their hearts.

We survived lawn darts, metal slides, and snacks that could strip paint. And now we’re out here trying to survive our own children. Who melt down if their organic fruit snack is the wrong shade of mauve. While helicopter moms hover with SPF 9000 and BPA‑free water bottles shaped like emotional support gourds. The 80s made us fireproof. Thanks for reading! What are more snacks that you can remember from this time period?

Affirmation: “I honor my inner 80s kid by embracing chaos. Choosing joy. And refusing to read ingredient labels.”

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife