This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“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.
“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.’
“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.
“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.
“Some strains whisper. Oreoz leans in. Hands you a cookie. And tells you the truth you’ve been avoiding.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors lean in while we talk about a strain that tastes like dessert but hits like a truth‑telling auntie at Thanksgiving. This Budtender Moment Is dedicated to as strain that’s has a name that instantly makes me think about things I liked growing up. The strain name is Oreoz.
Oreoz is an indica‑dominant hybrid. It’s the kind that looks sweet. Smells sweet. And then folds you like a church bulletin when the sermon runs long. It is a cross between Cookies & Cream x Secret Weapon. Cookies & Cream is a cross between Starfighter x Girl Scout Cookies (GSC). Secret Weapon is a cross between Chemdawg x Alien Technology. Oreoz is basically the grandchild who inherited the sweet tooth, the attitude, and the ability to nap anywhere.
Oreoz tastes like someone melted a s’more over a diesel engine in the best possible way. The flavor consists of toasted marshmallow, chocolate cookie crumble, sweet cream, earthy gas, and a hint of pepper on the exhale, It’s dessert with a backbone.
The terpene profile is Caryophyllene, Limonene, Myrcene, and depending on the grow, you may also see Linalool or Humulene peeking through. Oreoz is a comfort‑strain like a weighted blanket with opinions. Patients often reach for it to help with chronic stress, anxiety, insomnia, appetite loss, chronic pain, muscle tension, and mood instability. It’s an indica‑dominant hybrid with strong sedative tendencies. It’s best saved for evenings, off‑days, or when you’ve already taken your bra off.
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 ground myself in sweetness, strength, and clarity. I allow comfort to find me. And I receive it without apology.
“In the 80s, our hair wasn’t a style. It was a structural commitment, baby.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the Aqua Net. Fan the smoke alarm with a church bulletin. And may the Lord forgive every Southern woman who single‑handedly punched a hole in the ozone layer before she even made it to homeroom. Today we are not just talking about 80s hair. We are bearing witness. We are testifying. We are gathering at the altar of teased bangs, crispy curls, and hair so big it needed its own seatbelt. Let me paint you a picture.
It’s 1988. Your mama is in the bathroom at 5:45 AM. And already three Diet Cokes deep. Wearing a robe that has seen things no robe should ever see. She’s got a teasing comb in one hand. A can of Aqua Net in the other. And a look in her eye that says, “I will NOT let humidity win today. Not in this house. Not on my watch.”
The bathroom is fogged up like a Baptist sauna. The cat is hiding under the bed because it knows what’s coming. Your bangs are standing straight up like they’re trying to catch the Rapture early. And your mama? She’s whispering to herself like a woman possessed, “Just a little more height. Just a little more lift. Just a little more structural integrity.” This wasn’t hair styling. This was emotional warfare. This was Southern carpentry. This was aerodynamic rebellion. And we lived for it.
THE 10 HAIRSTYLES OF THE 80s THAT DESERVED THEIR OWN EMERGENCY RESPONSE TEAM
The Mall Bangs-Achieved by teasing your bangs until they resembled a tidal wave frozen mid‑crash. These bangs could block UV rays. Deflect insults. And possibly intercept Soviet radio transmissions.
The Perm That Never Quit-Tight curls so aggressive they could file a noise complaint. You didn’t get a perm. You entered a long‑term relationship with one.
The Feathered Farrah-Hair so swoopy it created its own wind patterns. If you turned your head too fast, you could knock over a toddler.
The Mullet-Business in the front. Felony in the back. The official haircut of men who owned at least one illegal firework.
The Crimped Catastrophe-Looked like your hair lost a fight with a waffle iron. Perfect for when you wanted to look electrocuted on purpose.
The Teased‑to‑Jesus Crown-The higher the hair, the closer to God. And we were practically sitting in His lap.
The Side Ponytail of Chaos-Because nothing says “I’m barely holding it together” like putting all your hair on one side of your head.
The Rat‑Tail-A hairstyle that proved not everyone should have access to scissors.
The Aqua‑Net Helmet-Hair so stiff you could’ve used it as a car jack. If you hugged someone, they risked a concussion.
The Glam‑Metal Mane-Hair so big it needed its own zip code and emotional support animal. If you walked behind someone with this hair, you needed a spotter.
And that is the gospel truth of 80s hair. A decade where every woman walked around with a hairstyle that could survive a tornado, a breakup, and a surprise visit from the pastor. A decade where we used enough hairspray to embalm a small horse. A decade when our bangs were so high they could’ve been used as a landmark.
We didn’t just style our hair. We engineered it. We architected it. We fought humidity with the fury of a thousand Southern grandmothers. And if that ain’t a legacy, I don’t know what is. Mic dropped like a can of Aqua Net rolling off the bathroom counter and denting the tile. Thanks for reading! Please post some 80s hair pictures.
Affirmation: I am bold. I am lifted. I am teased to perfection. No humidity formed against me shall prosper.
“Healing doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers, ‘I’m here.’”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like a prayer for calm, clarity, and compassion. Today’s Budtender Moment isn’t just a strain review. It’s a story about a little girl. A family desperate for hope. And a group of growers who turned their craft into a calling. Charlotte’s Web isn’t just cannabis. It’s a chapter in medical history written in courage, community, and the quiet power of a plant that chose healing over hype.
Before Charlotte’s Web became a household name, it was simply a mission. Charlotte Figi, a young girl from Colorado, lived with a rare and severe form of epilepsy known as Dravet syndrome. By the time she was five, she was experiencing hundreds of seizures a week. Seizures that stole her childhood, mobility, and her family’s hope. Her parents tried everything. Diets. Medications. Experimental treatments. Nothing worked.
Then came the Stanley Brothers. A group of Colorado cultivators who were quietly working on a high-CBD, low-THC hemp strain. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t psychoactive. It wasn’t meant for recreational shelves. It was meant for healing.
When Charlotte’s parents reached out, the brothers agreed to help. They refined and stabilized a phenotype that delivered CBD in powerful, consistent levels. With almost no THC. The results were immediate and life-changing. Charlotte’s seizures dropped dramatically. Giving her back pieces of her life that had been stolen. In her honor, the brothers named the strain Charlotte’s Web. A tribute to the little girl whose bravery reshaped the medical cannabis landscape. Her story opened doors. Changed laws. And sparked a global conversation about compassionate access.
Charlotte’s Web isn’t built like typical cannabis strains. Its lineage is intentionally therapeutic. And some say that there are no exact genetic lineage that has ever been released. And the strain varies from being a high CBD strain that is sativa leaning. And some say that it’s a more balanced hybrid. Some sources report that this strain is a cross between Industrial Hemp × High-CBD Landrace Genetics. The second generation of genetic lineage is possibly CBD-Dominant Phenotype × CBD-Dominant Phenotype. The Stanley Brothers refined the line to ensure ultra-low THC and consistently high CBD expression. These were specifically selected for cannabinoid stability. Not psychoactivity.
Charlotte’s Web tastes like a morning walk before the world wakes up. It consists of earthy sweetness, soft pine, light citrus peel, and herbal warmth. It’s gentle, grounding, and quietly comforting.
Charlotte’s Web expresses a gentle, grounding terpene bouquet. And the only information I’ve found about a possible terpene profile consists of Myrcene, Pinene, Caryophyllene, and Limonene. It’s the botanical equivalent of a deep exhale. Charlotte’s Web is one of the most medically respected strains in the world. Patients reach for this strain when they need seizure support, anxiety, inflammation, chronic pain, mood, focus, and body relaxation without sedation. It’s the strain people reach for when they want to feel functional, steady, and safe.
I have personally tried this strain in another area of the country. This strain where not my typical heavy indica, works extremely well for m And unfortunately, there is nowhere in the area where I currently live that carries this strain. No matter what condition you’re trying to treat. I highly recommend this strain for anything. If you need something heavier at night, have that on standby. But this strain works very well for daytime use. And no matter what your experience level, you will find relief in Charlotte’s Web.
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 my body’s need for peace. I welcome calm into every corner of my life.
“Gen X: Because someone had to survive the 80s so the rest of y’all could have feelings.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. We’re about to summon the spirits of Gen X. We were the only generation that survived metal playground equipment, unfiltered hose water, and parents who thought “supervision” was something only rich people did.
Let’s talk about the 80s. The decade where every child was basically a free‑range chicken with a bike. And nothing captures the chaos of our upbringing better than the rotary phone. That thing wasn’t just a communication device. It was the first escape room. A psychological puzzle. A patience test. A spiritual trial. A full‑body workout. A rite of passage.
Listen. If you didn’t grow up in the 80s, you will never understand the emotional damage of mis‑dialing the last number on a rotary phone. You’d get all the way to the ninth digit. Your finger trembling. Your soul leaving your body. And then slip. Back to the beginning. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Do not call your friend to see if they can come outside.
Rotary phones were the original “Are you smart enough to escape this room?” challenge. Except the room was your grandmother’s kitchen. The puzzle was a plastic wheel from 1952. And the prize was getting to talk to someone whose mom might pick up and yell, “Hello? Who is this?” And Gen X? We were forged in that fire.
We survived:
Phone cords long enough to lasso a sibling, a dog, and a passing station wagon.
Busy signals, which were basically the universe saying, “try again later, loser.”
Parents screaming “Get off the phone, I’m expecting a call!” even though they weren’t.
The fear of calling a friend and having their dad answer with a voice that sounded like he ate gravel for breakfast.
Kids today will never know the terror of dialing a crush’s house and praying their mother didn’t answer with the tone of a woman who had already raised three children and was done.
And while we’re at it, Gen X childhood wasn’t just rotary phones. It was metal slides hot enough to brand livestock. Monkey bars designed by someone who hated children. Halloween costumes made of plastic so flammable they violated the Geneva Convention. Riding in the back of pickup trucks like we were in a Marlboro commercial. Snacks made of 98% Red Dye No. 5. Being left alone for 12 hours with nothing but a bike, a stick, and a vague sense of danger.
We didn’t have helicopter parents. We had “figure it out” parents. We didn’t have screen time limits. We had “go outside and don’t come back until the streetlights come on.” We didn’t have anxiety. We had character development. And now? We’re raising kids who need a snack, a water bottle, a fidget toy, a weighted blanket, and three emotional support apps just to go to Target.
So yes. We are Gen X. We survived rotary phones, lawn darts, metal slides, Satanic Panic, latchkey childhood, and parents who thought seatbelts were “optional suggestions.” We escaped the escape room. We solved the puzzle. We lived to tell the tale. And now we’re out here trying to raise children who cry if the Wi‑Fi blinks for three seconds.
Meanwhile, we’re still laughing. Still standing. Still unbothered. Because we were raised by chaos, danger, and a phone that required upper‑body strength. Cord tangled. Streetlights on. Gen X forever. Thanks for reading! What do you remember about growing up in the 80’s?
Affirmation: “I am a resilient, sarcastic, rotary‑phone‑forged masterpiece. And nothing in this modern world can intimidate me.”
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.
This Puzzled Life 