This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Democracy is not a spectator sport. It’s a full‑contact commitment.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors. Because we’re gonna need every last one of them for these midterms.
Down here in the Deep South where humidity clings harder than your ex. And porch swings know more secrets than Congress. You can feel something shifting. The air is thick. Not just with Mississippi heat. But with the weight of a democracy that’s been limping like it stepped in a gopher hole.
And let me tell you something with my whole chest. Voting is not just a right. It’s a ritual. A responsibility. A sacred act the founding fathers carved into the bones of this nation. But lately? Lord help us. Some folks in power seem more interested in scaring people out of voting than encouraging them to show up. Some communities report intimidation at polling places. Some voters say they’re being misled or discouraged. Some watchdog groups warn that certain officials are using fear, confusion, or pressure to shape who shows up and who stays home. And whether it’s intentional or incompetence, the result is the same. Democracy shrinks when people are scared to speak.
Now, I’m not here to tell you for whom to vote. That’s your business. Your ancestors’ business. And the ballot box’s business. But let me be clear with the same fire my grandmother used when she warned us not to play in the storm. Some Americans believe our country is under threat from leaders who lean toward authoritarian behavior. Leaders who seem more interested in consolidating power than protecting rights. More invested in silencing critics than uplifting citizens. And whether you agree with that perspective or not, one truth stands tall like a magnolia in July. It is up to “We the People” to decide the direction of this nation. When any government, any regime, any official, any leader uses tactics that make people afraid to participate, that’s a crack in the foundation of democracy itself.
And honey, we don’t let cracks spread in this house. We patch. We reinforce. We rebuild with grit, grace, and a little bit of Southern spite. Because our ancestors didn’t survive wars, depressions, pandemics, and politicians with questionable hairlines just for us to sit home on Election Day saying, “Well, I’m tired.” No ma’am. No sir.
Voting is how we honor every ancestor who couldn’t. Voting is how we protect every child who will. Voting is how we remind the powerful that the people are the ones holding the receipts. So, when you walk into that polling place, imagine your great‑grandmother walking beside you. Her hand on your shoulder and whispering, “Baby, don’t let them silence you.” Imagine the sage smoke curling around your ankles like armor. Imagine the charcoal glowing like the fire in your spirit. And then vote like democracy depends on it. Because it does. This midterm isn’t just an election. It’s a pulse check on America. And we damn sure aren’t letting her flatline. Thanks for reading! And get out and vote!
Affirmation: I stand in my power. I honor my ancestors. My vote is my voice, and my voice will not be silenced.
“Democracy isn’t fragile. It’s just tired of babysitting people who think freedom means ‘no rules and unlimited queso.’”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. No, seriously. Light it. We’re starting this event with an emergency rush on the ancestors. Because we need every last one of them to help keep the bad spirits of fascist nonsense and red‑hat ignorance at bay. We’re talking about the auntie ancestors, queer ancestors, feminist ancestors, ancestors who died fighting for democracy. The ancestors who died fighting for seasoning. And the ancestors who died because someone said, “Let’s try essential oils instead of antibiotics.” We call upon them all.
AAs the charcoal smolders, a volunteer in a rainbow caftan rings a bell and announces, “Spirits of democracy, please protect us from the unseasoned forces of authoritarianism.” The smoke rises. The glitter falls. The ancestors nod. The red hats tremble. Welcome to the Right Side of History Liberal Event.
You’ve escaped the cult. You’ve shed the cloud of “trad wife obedience.” You’ve arrived at color, clarity, and community. Everyone is welcome except fascists, racists, homophobes, authoritarian fanboys, and anyone who thinks God needs a hype man. Unity only. Diversity only. Humanity only.
If you brought your children be warned that members of current red hat cult members will likely show up. If you see them please keep your children close. As they are not to be trusted around minors and non-consenting adults.
The Drag Queen Hospitality Committee greet newcomers withseven‑foot wigs.Eyelashes visible from orbit.And clipboards labeled “Mandatory Fabulousness Audit.” If you don’t have glitter on you by noon, they’ll fix that.
The Furry Outreach Program (Now With Litter Boxes!) run hydration. Yes, they brought litter boxes. No, they are not for what conspiracy theorists think.The litter boxes are full of tip jars, snack containers, glitter disposal units, and one labeled “Authoritarian Tears Only.”
The Tran Joy Department volunteers assemble Gender Euphoria Starter Kits with a coupon for one moment of pure self-love. Affirmation stickers. Glitter blessed by trans elders. And a laminated card that says, “You’re doing amazing!” Joy is happening. Mind your business.
The Women’s Rights & Feminist Liberation Zone is a welcome to the area where abortion is healthcare. Not a sin. Contraception is a right. Feminism is mandatory. And yes, trans women are women. They will have a large sign that reads, “Those Who Carry The Water For The Patriarchy Will Be The First To Drown.” You will leave this area transformed. You will leave with a spine. You will leave with a voice. You will leave with a refusal to ever shrink again. This area is where patriarchy comes to die.
Teachers’ Lounge: Politically Upgraded Teachers cannot perform surgeries. But they can teach, inspire, protect, and survive chaos daily. A rainbow flag will be replacing the 10 Commandments. And they will have a sign reading, “We teach love, not indoctrination.”
Immigrant Welcome Station Snacks from all cultures will be represented. And a sign reading, “You’re Safe Here.” And a volunteer sheet titled, “Teach Americans to Season Food.” If you are still active in the red hat brigade, you will be given a saltine cracker and two pieces of white bread. And the meat will be local roadkill. You can flavor it with Treason Seasoning. And we have you some special water taken from the AI data centers that you voted for. Don’t worry about the color or the floaters. Those are the precious minerals shipped in directly from Greenland.
The Black Community Appreciation Corner will feature a DJ spinning tracks white liberals pretend they already knew. A BLM flag flying proudly. A suggestion box labeled “Stop Doing This.” And a sign reading, “Thank You For Carrying Democracy, Again.”
The Veterans Honor Hall is an area run by veterans who have decided they’re done watching democracy get treated like a clearance‑rack item at Dollar General. And the energy of “I fought for this country. Not for fascist cosplay.” It’s for those who fought for democracy. Who served with honor. And those who protected freedoms we still fight for today. Leading the charge are the most vocal veterans such as:
Rig Madden-retired, loud, and allergic to authoritarianism.
Gunny Speaks Out-former Marine, current menace to injustice. Who rides around on his motorcycle with a “Fuck Trump” flag and resistance music blaring.
· Jolly Good Ginger– is the veteran who laughs like a Scottish war drum. Has a beard that could legally vote. Carries a laminated copy of the Constitution like it’s a Pokémon card. Says things like “I didn’t fight for this country so y’all could turn it into a Hobby Lobby fever dream.” And ends every speech with, “Liberate. And don’t let fascism dry out your soul.” He is the one who organizes the Veteran Oath Refresher Course. Where veterans loudly remind active military and Congress, “Your oath wasn’t a suggestion.” He’s also the unofficial hype man of the most infamous protest in veteran history Operation: Dildo Blitz. https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1CTJ4uY7U2/?mibextid=wwXIfr
It was a peaceful but unforgettable protest against ICE, where participants threw rubber dildos while yelling, “F*** ICE!” Jolly Good Ginger described it as, “The most patriotic thing I’ve seen since boot camp. A direct hit to injustice, literally. The Founding Fathers would’ve been confused. But proud.”
Veterans stood shoulder‑to‑shoulder, reminding America that patriotism is not a hat. Democracy is not a prop. And civil disobedience is sometimes best delivered with comedic precision. This zone is loud. Proud. And ready to defend democracy with megaphones, constitutional literacy, and Jolly Good Ginger’s battle cry, “Democracy doesn’t run on vibes. It runs on us.” Their mission is simply to remind active military of their oath. Remind Congress of their oath. And to remind America that patriotism is not a truck decal. And that democracy is not optional.
Holy Water Countermeasures include actions for if red‑hat evangelicals spray holy water, we respond with a Blue Tsunami of democracy. Followed by a rainbow mist. And a pamphlet titled, “Diversity Isn’t Persecution.”
Special Guests for the ‘Welcome to the Right Side of History’ Event include people like Robert De Niro, Pink, Meryl Streep, Barbra Streisand, Jelly Roll, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. They’re here to give speeches. And remind everyone that democracy is sexier than authoritarianism.
Grindr Crash Zone. About an hour away, there’s a meet‑up area where the red hat attendees will be on Grindr. Get there early. The servers will absolutely crash.
Cracker Barrel Takeover. After the protest, we march as a colorful, accepting liberal mob into Cracker Barrel.Changes includegender‑neutral bathrooms,pride‑painted rocking chairs, vegan menu options, banned historical books on the mantle. Rainbow socks replacing Confederate décor.Drag queens seat you. Furries host. Lesbians fix the chairs. And trans men and women reorganize the store by color gradient.
Welcome to liberalism. Welcome to color. Welcome to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. Welcome to clarity. Welcome to community. Welcome to This Puzzled Life. Grab a latte. Grab a banned book. Grab a pair of pearls. Because some red hat is going to need to clutch them.
And so, as we stand here with charcoal lit. Ancestors summoned. Glitter airborne. Veterans yelling at Congress like disappointed uncles at Thanksgiving. Drag queens adjusting their wigs for aerodynamic resistance. Trans men and women with radical authenticity. And furries hydrating democracy one juice box at a time.
Let it be known that we are not the storm. We are the entire weather system. We are the Blue Tsunami. We are the ones that shows up with banned books, civil rights, science, seasoning, and a reusable water bottle covered in stickers that make red hats sweat. We are the people who read. We are the people who vote. We are the people who know the difference between patriotism and cosplay. We are the people who will not be silenced, dimmed, or dehydrated.
Because the next time fascism knocks, we’re answering the door with a drag queen, a veteran, a furry, a lesbian with a tool belt. A trans person with a megaphone. And a choir of liberals singing “Not Today, Satan.” Mic dropped. Stage cleared. Democracy moisturized. Ignorance denied. Amen and pass the seasoning. Thanks for reading! And Resist Fascism!
Affirmation: I am calm. I am grounded. I am glitter‑coated. And I am fully prepared to defend democracy with humor, humanity, and a hydration pack.
“When a nation protects its predators more fiercely than its people, the collapse isn’t coming. It’s already here.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Burn the sage like we’re trying to smoke out every demon from the last seven administrations. Today, we’re cooking up a truth so blistering it might peel the paint off the Capitol dome. Invoke every ancestor available. The loud, petty, and the ones who still whisper “bless your heart” like a threat. I’m calling on Big Mama, PawPaw, Aunt Loretta with the wandering eye. And that one ancestor who definitely hexed a Confederate colonel in 1863. Bring them all. We need every ounce of ancestral horsepower because America has officially entered its “What in the absolute hell?” era The nation has gone full fever‑dream and nobody seems interested in waking up.
The Epstein Files, the ones we were told were “handled,” “investigated,” “classified,” “lost,” “oops,” and “don’t worry about it,” are being buried deeper than my will to live during tax season. Meanwhile, the government is out here juggling disasters like a drunk circus clown with a head injury. Healthcare? A dumpster fire. Bodily autonomy? On clearance. Gas prices? Astronomical. White nationalism and Christian nationalism? Thriving like mold in a Mississippi bathroom. And selective compassion? It’s the new national pastime. So, pull up a chair. Pour a drink. Hug your cats. Because this blog is about to be the emotional, sarcastic, ancestor‑approved scream into the void we all need.
The Epstein Files is the radioactive scandal our government keeps trying to bury under “Look! A shiny distraction!” The cover‑up is so blatant it’s practically a national sport. Billionaires with more skeletons than a Halloween aisle are suddenly moral authorities. While lecturing the rest of us as they scramble to hide their names from a list that should’ve detonated the entire political landscape.
And while they’re busy protecting predators, the rest of us are out here trying to survive a healthcare system held together with duct tape, prayer, and expired Band‑Aids. People can’t afford insulin. But Ghislane Maxwell is in a cushy prison doing yoga. Playing with puppies. Which she shouldn’t have access to. Because what if she had a torturous, sexual urge? And living her best “Namaste for trafficking children” life. Make it make sense.
Bodily autonomy? Gone. Women’s rights, LGBTQ+ rights, trans healthcare are all tossed into the shredder. While politicians smile like they just won a church raffle. Gas prices? Higher than a Pentecostal soprano hitting a praise note. White nationalism and Christian nationalism? They’ve fused into one giant casserole of “Jesus told me to be hateful.”
Immigrants, Black communities, Muslim families, LGBTQ+ folks are all targeted with cruelty so intentional it should come with a warning label. Compassion is now selective. Morality is performative. And empathy is apparently a luxury item.
Gerrymandering has turned voting maps into abstract art. Free speech is evaporating faster than my patience. Gun rights remain sacred. Gun violence remains ignored. And our veterans, again, are abandoned like last year’s Christmas decorations.
Climate change is catastrophic. The planet is screaming. And the government is like, “Have you tried recycling?” Our food and health safety are controlled by what I can only describe as roadkill science. That have regulations written by people who think salmonella, E.coli, botulism, listeria, and cyclospora is a seasoning.
And the FBI and DOJ? They are busy targeting political enemies. While apparently deciding that bestiality is no longer disqualifying for employment. I’m sorry, what? Who approved that? Who signed the paperwork? Who looked at that and said, “Seems fine.”
And because the chaos buffet wasn’t full enough, we’re now in a war with a country that didn’t even have nuclear weapons. Add the genocide of millions of Palestinians is being justified with the emotional range of a cold french fry. And now you have an administration accused of torturing and sexually abusing children. While billionaires desperately trying to avoid accountability. All of this is to protect predators.
What in the absolute hell is going on in our nation? The ancestors are pacing. The cats are side‑eyeing. The sage is burning like a bonfire. And America is acting like a reality show produced by Satan. And sponsored by generational trauma.
So here we are. Standing knee‑deep in a nation that feels like it was written by a drunk screenwriter who got fired from Black Mirror for being “too unrealistic.” A country where billionaires accused of sexual abuse get treated like endangered wildlife. While the rest of us are out here duct‑taping our sanity together with expired coupons and prayer.
The Epstein Files should’ve cracked the sky open. They should’ve been the reckoning. The purge. And the moment the powerful finally faced consequences. Instead, they were folded. Spindled. Mutilated. Redacted. Buried. Shredded. Re‑shredded. And then sprinkled with holy water and lies. And we’re told to “move on.” While the same people who covered it up lecture us about morality like they didn’t spend half their careers on private jets to private islands.
Selective compassion is the new national religion. AI is poisoning truth and our health faster than you can say “deepfake.” Climate change is screaming like a tornado siren. Free speech is shrinking. Gun violence is shrugged off. And our food safety is being overseen by people who think “roadkill science” is a legitimate discipline.
We’re in a war with a country that didn’t have nuclear weapons. Millions of Palestinians are dead in a genocide the world keeps trying to explain away with PR statements and selective outrage. And all of this is being justified by an administration of billionaires who treat accountability like it’s a contagious disease.
So let me say this plainly. If a nation will burn its people, its planet, its freedoms, its truth, its morality, and its future just to protect predators, then the predators were never the problem. The system that worships them is.
This isn’t chaos. This isn’t incompetence. This isn’t accidental. This is what happens when corruption becomes culture. When cruelty becomes currency. When power becomes religion. When accountability becomes myth.
And ‘We The People’ who still feel. Still care. Still fight. Still scream. And still hope. Are left standing in the ashes asking, “What in the absolute hell is going on in our nation?” They only get away with this because they’re terrified of what happens when we stop being quiet. Terrified of what happens when we stop accepting crumbs. Terrified of what happens when we stop believing their distractions. Terrified of what happens when we remember our power. Terrified of what happens when we refuse to let predators write the story.
Because the truth is this. A nation built on lies can only survive if the people stay silent. A nation built on injustice can only thrive if the people stay afraid. A nation built on cruelty can only endure if the people stop caring. And we are not silent. We are not afraid. We are not done. Because the reckoning isn’t coming. It’s already awake. Thanks for reading! And vote the predators out!
Affirmation: I stand in truth even when the world tries to bury it. I honor justice even when power hides from it. I call on my ancestors, my courage, and my voice. Because silence is no longer an option.
“Renaming the world doesn’t rewrite history. It just highlights who’s afraid of it.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal, y’all. The ancestors are pacing the porch. The church ladies have armed themselves with holy water. And I’m over here personally apologizing to every ally nation we’ve ever had.
I’m talking to Canada, Mexico, the U.K., France, Germany, Japan, South Korea, Australia, New Zealand, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Ireland, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Ukraine, Poland, the Netherlands, Belgium, Greece, Turkey, India and any other I might’ve missed. And honestly anyone else who has had to witness this administration rename the world like it’s labeling leftovers. To our allies, “I’m sorry.” Not all of America has been gaslit into believing every bizarre, ego‑inflated proclamation that comes out of this administration. Some of us still have functioning smoke detectors for nonsense. Let’s begin with the geography crimes.
The Gulf of Mexico → The Gulf of America
Mexico, I’m sorry. We didn’t approve this. We didn’t vote on this. We didn’t even get a group text.
Lake Ontario → Lake of America
Canada, bless your polite hearts. You deserved better than waking up to find your lake rebranded like a discount theme park.
Renaming the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans
The ancestors are clutching their pearls. The religious folks are sprinkling holy water on globes. The oceans themselves are filing cease‑and‑desist letters.
The Strait of Hormuz → “Trump Strait”
To our Middle Eastern allies, “I apologize on behalf of every American who still knows how maps work.”
New Mexico → New America
New Mexico, you are perfect as you are. You don’t need a rebrand. You need this administration to stop treating the U.S. map like a coloring book.
Mt. Rushmore Wants No Part of This
The mountain said “no.” The granite said “no.” The ancestors said, “absolutely not.”
Palm Beach International Airport → Donald J. Trump International Airport
To travelers everywhere: I’m sorry. I’ll walk. I’ll hitchhike. I’ll ride a goat. I’m not stepping foot in an airport renamed during a tantrum.
The Kennedy Center Tantrum
A building honoring a president known for leadership, dignity, and actual public service. Is now being eyed for a name addition that history itself is side‑eyeing. And if not, he wants to tear it down. To the Kennedy family, to historians, to every ally who admired American cultural diplomacy, “I apologize.” Some of us still know the difference between legacy and branding.
ITEMS TRULY WORTHY OF HIS NAME
The National Registry of Unnecessary Renaming
The Federal Complex for Misplaced Documents
The Museum of Executive Tantrums
The Center for Advanced Ego Management
The Department of Unfinished Promises and Overfinished Branding
The National Orange Alert System (for ego emergencies)
The Institute for Mispronouncing Basic Geography
The Hall of “Who Approved This?” Decisions
The Donald J. Trump Memorial Porta‑Facility at Every State Fair
The Trump–Epstein Archive of Investigative Records
The Federal Correctional Complex for High‑Profile Accountability
Rename your oceans. Rename your lakes. Rename your airports. Rename your socks if it helps you sleep at night. But America’s allies? We see you. We respect you. And we apologize for every moment you’ve had to witness this administration treating global geography like a personal scrapbook. History doesn’t bend for branding. Legacy isn’t built with Sharpies. And America, the real America, doesn’t confuse ego with leadership.
The ancestors have spoken. The church ladies have nodded. And the rest of us are still here. Still somewhat sane. And still refusing to call the Pacific Ocean anything but the Pacific Ocean. Thanks for reading! Keep unifying!
Affirmation: I speak truth with humor, courage, and clarity. I honor my allies, my ancestors, and my sanity by refusing to accept delusion as destiny. I stay grounded, powerful, and ungaslit.
“When they dismantle your protections, remember. Your voice is older, louder, and stronger than their fear.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like a warning flare to every ancestor who ever whispered, “Baby, stay ready.” The level of cruelty this administration has reached a whole other level of low. It’s not just a new low. It’s a spelunking expedition into the deepest, dankest cave of misogyny they could find. They didn’t just roll back Title IX protections. They took a sledgehammer to the foundation. Smiled for the cameras. And told women and girls to “be grateful.”
And I swear on every magnolia tree in Mississippi. Every grandmother who ever weaponized a “bless your heart.” And every cat currently judging me from the kitchen counter. This moment feels like a spiritual emergency. A generational grief. A slap so loud it echoes through the bones of every woman who fought for the right to learn, compete, and exist without being shoved aside.
Title IX wasn’t perfect. But it was a lifeline. A promise. A shield. And now we’re watching that shield get melted down into scrap metal while the administration acts like they’re doing us a favor.
So, let’s talk about what losing Title IX actually means. Let’s talk about the consequences. Not the sanitized political talking points. Let’s talk about the ten ways this rollback will hit women, girls, survivors, students, athletes, and entire communities. And yes, I’ll be adding sarcasm after each one. Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll scream loud enough to wake the ancestors.
Ten Consequences of Losing Title IX and the Sarcasm They Deserve
1. Sexual assault survivors will have fewer protections and fewer avenues for justice.
Because apparently the administration thinks the best way to handle sexual violence is to pretend it doesn’t exist. Oh fabulous. Nothing says “progress” like making campuses safer for predators.
2. Schools will no longer be required to investigate harassment with urgency or fairness.
Meaning victims get to relive trauma while institutions drag their feet. Wonderful. Who doesn’t love a good bureaucratic slow roast of someone’s pain?
3. Girls’ sports programs will lose funding and support.
The opportunities that shaped generations of confident, capable women, gone. Amazing. Because clearly the world needs fewer strong girls. And more fragile egos.
4. Students facing discrimination will have fewer protections and fewer rights.
If you’re marginalized, good luck. Perfect. Equality was getting way too mainstream anyway.
5. Schools can more easily ignore bullying and harassment.
Especially when it’s gender‑based. Fantastic. Nothing builds character like unchecked cruelty.
6. LGBTQ+ students will face increased vulnerability without clear federal safeguards.
Their safety becomes optional. Incredible. Because nothing says “freedom” like telling queer kids they’re on their own.
7. Pregnant and parenting students will lose protections that kept them in school.
Education becomes a privilege instead of a right. Lovely. Motherhood is hard enough. So why not add academic sabotage?
8. Disabled students will face more barriers to equal access.
Title IX helped ensure accommodations weren’t “optional.” Brilliant. Accessibility was clearly too convenient.
9. Women in STEM fields will lose protections against discrimination.
The pipeline shrinks. The future dims. Perfect. Who needs women solving problems when we can just not solve them?
10. Administrators will have more power to silence complaints and protect institutions instead of students.
Accountability evaporates. Amazing. Nothing screams “justice” like prioritizing PR over people.
This isn’t just policy. This isn’t just politics. This is a direct hit to the soul of every woman who ever fought to be seen, heard, respected, protected, and allowed to learn without fear. Title IX was a fragile, hard‑won promise that said, “ You matter. Your safety matters. Your education matters. Your future matters.”
Rolling it back is not an accident. It’s not a misunderstanding. It’s not a bureaucratic oversight. It is cruelty. Calculated. Deliberate. Cold. And I refuse to let them pretend otherwise. Women don’t go quietly. Girls don’t disappear. Survivors don’t shrink. And ancestors don’t rest when injustice is alive. We are the charcoal lit. We are the sage burning. We are the storm gathering. We are the daughters of every woman who refused to bow. And if they think rolling back Title IX will silence us? They have underestimated the wrong generation. We will rise. We will roar. We will rebuild protections they tried to destroy. And when history looks back on this moment, it will not remember their cruelty. It will remember our fire. Sage still burning. Ancestors still watching. Thanks for reading!
Affirmation: I rise with the ancestors behind me. The fire within me. And the unshakable truth that my worth is not up for debate.
“If chaos had a costume, it’d show up wearing shoulder pads. Smelling like burnt popcorn. And insisting everything’s ‘under control.’ Bless its heart.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. And call upon the ancestors. Specifically Big Mama, who once banished a possum from her porch using nothing but a flip‑flop and the power of prayer. Because it’s Halloween season in Deep South Mississippi. And we need every spiritual reinforcement available to cope with this current administration. I’m not naming names. I’m just saying the vibes are giving “haunted VCR that eats tapes,” and the ancestors are tired. So gather ‘round the fire, clutch your candy corn like it’s a stress ball, and let’s talk about Things I Trust More Than This Current Administration: Halloween Edition in 1980s Style.
Before we get to this list, let me set the scene properly. Picture me standing in my kitchen. Wearing neon‑orange leg warmers. Holding a pumpkin‑spice latte that tastes like regret. And staring at the news like it’s a possessed Speak & Spell from 1985. The ancestors are pacing. The cats are judging. And I’m over here thinking, “You know what? I trust the ghost living in my attic. The one who only communicates by rearranging my Tupperware. Which is more than whatever this administration is doing.”
It’s Halloween season. The veil is thin. The vibes are chaotic. And the spirits are whispering, “Make a list, baby. Make a list before you lose your religion.” So with full Southern sass. 1980s hairspray confidence. And the emotional support of three extremely opinionated cats. Let’s get into the things I trust more than this current administration. Hold onto your britches. It’s about to get spooky.
10 Things I Trust More Than This Current Administration
(with commentary from Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell)
A 1987 Ouija board I bought at a yard sale from a woman named Earlene who swore it only summoned “friendly spirits and one confused raccoon.”
Piper: “I’d trust the raccoon. He seems organized.”
The structural integrity of a mall fountain after 400 unsupervised Gen X kids threw pennies, gum, and possibly a Walkman into it.
Coco: “Honestly, that fountain had grit. Unlike some folks.”
The last slice of pizza from ShowBiz Pizza Place that’s been sitting under the heat lamp since Reagan was in office.
Tinkerbell: “It’s aged like fine wine. Government? Not so much.”
A haunted Teddy Ruxpin whose batteries died in 1989 but still whispers “Hey there, friend…” at 3 AM.
Piper: “At least he’s consistent.”
The neighborhood witch who sells ‘love potions’ out of her trunk behind the Piggly Wiggly.
Coco: “She’s never lied to me. Can’t say that about everybody.”
The ghost of every VHS tape that got eaten alive by a VCR and now roams the earth seeking revenge.
Tinkerbell: “Justice for The NeverEnding Story.”
A bowl of mystery candy corn that’s been in your grandma’s crystal dish since 1982 and has the texture of sidewalk chalk.
Piper: “I’d eat it before I’d trust them.”
The clown from the 1986 Halloween carnival who smelled like Marlboros and existential dread.
Coco: “He had a plan. A weird plan, but a plan.”
The demon that lived in your old Lite-Brite and rearranged the pegs at night.
Tinkerbell: “At least he was creative.”
The spirit of every cat who has ever knocked something off a counter just to assert dominance.
All three cats in unison: “We understand leadership.”
Listen. If the ancestors wanted to send us a sign, they’d probably use a malfunctioning 1980s smoke machine, a neon‑green goblin, and a cassette tape labeled “DO NOT PLAY.” And honestly? I’d trust that whole production more than whatever this administration is doing on any given Tuesday.
Halloween teaches us many things. Don’t split up. Don’t investigate the noise. Don’t trust a politician who couldn’t find Mississippi on a map if you drew a big ol’ arrow and wrote “Right Here, Sugar.”
As my Aunt Loretta always said, “If the devil shows up wearing a Members Only jacket, at least you know he’s committed to a look.”
Now go forth and light your sage. Pet your cats like they’re furry emotional support therapists who accept payment in treats and gossip. And remember. If things get too spooky, too chaotic, or too reminiscent of a malfunctioning 1980s government PSA, just channel your inner final girl. I’m talking BIG hair, bigger attitude, and the kind of confidence only found in someone who survived a haunted roller rink. And still made it to homeroom on time.
Strut right past the chaos like you’ve got backstage passes to a Def Leppard concert. A fresh can of Aqua Net in your purse. And the ancestors cheering you on from the spiritual bleachers yelling, “That’s My Baby!”
Because when the world gets wild, you don’t crumble. You sashay. You sparkle. You stomp through the nonsense like you’re wearing rhinestone‑covered Reeboks. And the devil himself owes you money. And if anyone or anything tries to rattle your peace? Just give them that classic Southern side‑eye that says, “Bless your heart. But not today.”
Affirmation: I walk in humor, protection, and high‑volume 1980s confidence. No earthly foolishness can shake my spirit, my peace, or my hair.
“If humans stopped trying to convert queer people and started converting their own hypocrisy, the world would finally be cat‑approved.”
-Tinkerbell
The charcoal is lit. Sage is swirling. And the Mississippi humidity is thick enough to baptize a biscuit. My cats have decided to open a Conversion Therapy Center. And it is the exact opposite of the real, harmful mess humans invented.
In the human world, “conversion therapy” has meant decades of trying to bully, shame, terrify, or spiritually blackmail queer folks into pretending to be straight. It’s been condemned by medical associations, mental‑health professionals, and anyone with a functioning moral compass. It’s caused trauma, depression, and a whole lot of people sprinting out of closets like they were on fire.
But in my house? If my cats ran conversion therapy, the only thing they’d be converting your would be anxiety into a nap. Your shame into a purr. Your internalized homophobia into a snack break. And your fear into “come lay down, you’re safe here.” Cats don’t believe in changing who you are. They believe in changing where you sit. How often you pet them. And whether you understand that your lap is community property.
Me: “Why is there a sign on the door that says, “CONVERSION THERAPY: NOW ACCEPTING WALK‑INS AND RUN‑AWAYS?”
Tinkerbell: “Because humans clearly don’t know how to run one ethically, so we’re taking over.”
Coco: “Our methods are evidence‑based. The evidence is that you look stressed and we want snacks.”
Piper: (already dialing the therapist)“I’m calling her. We need professional input. Also, I may have scheduled you for a double session.”
Me: “Piper, you cannot call our therapist every time you have a thought.”
Piper: “I can and I will. I am a mental‑health advocate.”
Tinkerbell: “Now sit. We’re going to treat the trauma caused by those humans who thought they could ‘pray the gay away.’”
Coco: “Ridiculous. You can’t pray away something that fabulous.”
Me: “So what exactly is your treatment plan?”
Tinkerbell: “Step one: unconditional acceptance.”
Coco: “Step two: snacks.”
Piper: “Step three: we convert your self‑doubt into a nap. A long one. With me on your chest.”
Me: “That’s it?”
Tinkerbell: “That’s all anyone ever needed. Shame is a human invention. We don’t participate. We support traditional values like naps, boundaries, and minding your own business.”
Coco: “We oppose hypocrisy. If you say you love people, then love them. Don’t weaponize it.”
Piper: “We believe in small government. Specifically, a government small enough to fit on the couch and not tell anyone who they’re allowed to love.”
Tinkerbell: “We also believe in freedom. Freedom to be queer. Freedom to be soft. Freedom to not be spiritually assaulted by people who can’t even season their chicken.”
Coco: “Amen.”
Me: “Why is the living room rearranged like a counseling center from a 1970s pamphlet?”
Tinkerbell: “Because we’re reclaiming the term ‘conversion therapy’ and converting it back to something humane.”
Coco: “Also because you needed an intervention. And because we wanted to sit in the spinny chair.”
Piper (already holding my phone like she pays the bill): “I’m calling our therapist. She needs to supervise this. You’re spiraling again.”
Me: “Piper, you cannot call our therapist every time I sigh.”
Piper: “You sighed in lowercase. That’s a cry for help.”
Tinkerbell: “Now sit down. We’re beginning the intake process.”
I sit. The couch groans like it knows what’s coming.
Coco: “State your name and the last time you felt fully accepted.”
Me: …
Coco: “Exactly. That’s why you’re here.”
Tinkerbell: “We’re going to address the trauma caused by those humans who thought they could ‘fix’ queer people with fear, shame, and pamphlets printed on cheap paper.”
Piper: “We don’t do shame here. We do snacks.”
Me: “So what’s the treatment plan?”
Tinkerbell: “Step one: We convert your internalized nonsense into purring.”
Coco: “Step two: We convert your anxiety into a nap. A long one. With weighted‑blanket cat.”
Piper: “Step three: We convert your belief that you must earn love into the understanding that you are loved because you exist. Also, because you feed us.”
Me: “That’s actually beautiful.”
Piper: “Don’t get mushy. I’m still calling the therapist.”
She presses the same button 14 times. The phone opens the calculator.
Tinkerbell: “Now, let’s talk about the real conversion therapy. The harmful kind. The one humans invented.”
Coco: “The one that tried to turn queer people straight by scaring them, shaming them, or telling them God was disappointed.”
Piper: “God made rainbows. Y’all need to calm down.”
Tinkerbell: “Our clinic does the opposite. We convert you back to yourself.”
Coco: “We convert you back to softness.”
Piper: “We convert you back to joy. And also, to the correct position for cuddling.”
Me: “So your therapy is basically love?”
Tinkerbell: “Love, naps, snacks, and accountability.”
Coco: “And calling out hypocrisy when we see it.”
Piper: “Especially the kind where people preach ‘love’ but practice ‘control.’”
Tinkerbell: “We don’t do that here. We do liberation.”
Coco: “And treats.”
Piper: “And calling the therapist.”
So, if my cats ran conversion therapy, it wouldn’t be about forcing queer people into boxes they were never meant to fit in. It wouldn’t be about shame disguised as holiness. It wouldn’t be about fear dressed up as “family values.” It would be about unlearning the lies you were told about yourself. It would be about reclaiming the softness you buried to survive. It would be about healing the parts of you that were taught to hide. It would be about converting the world’s cruelty into your own comfort.
My cats who are judgmental, biscuit‑making therapists know something the humans who invented harmful conversion therapy never understood. You don’t fix people by breaking them. You fix people by loving them so loudly that the shame can’t hear itself anymore. And if that means forced cuddling? If that means naps you didn’t schedule? If that means Piper calling our therapist every time I breathe wrong? Then so be it.
Charcoal is still burning. Sage still swirling. Cats still running the clinic. And the world still not ready for this level of queer‑affirming Southern‑gothic healing. Thanks for reading! And denounce conversion therapy. What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: “I am not here to be changed. I am here to be cherished without apology.”
“If your righteousness requires my suffering, then your holiness is nothing but cruelty dressed in Sunday clothes.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Lord, this country has lost its mind. Let the smoke rise like a prayer and a warning. Call the ones who survived storms, men, laws, and the kind of sanctified hypocrisy that could curdle milk in August. Today we’re talking about abortion rights in this country. And I’m bringing every ounce of Southern sass, righteous fury, and generational truth you asked for.
When Roe v. Wade was overturned, it wasn’t just a political decision. It was a death sentence for mothers, daughters, nieces, cousins, and every woman who has ever had to decide about her own damn body. And the same Christians who holler “God’s will” like they’re auditioning for a revival tent, are the first ones who would sneak their daughters across state lines faster than a Pentecostal deacon running from a scandal.
Let’s tell the truth. They don’t want their daughters forced to carry a rapist’s baby. They want your daughters to. And they justify it with that tired line, “Well, if it’s in God’s will…” If God’s will was that clear, he’d send a notarized letter. But these folks cherry-pick scripture like they’re at a Golden Corral buffet. They’ll quote “Thou shalt not kill” while ignoring every verse where the Bible literally commands pregnancy termination under certain circumstances.
Bible Sources They Never Bring Up
Numbers 5:11–31-The “ordeal of bitter water,” where a priest gives a woman a potion to end a pregnancy if she conceived through adultery.
Hosea 9:14 -“Give them a miscarrying womb.”
Exodus 21:22–25 – A fetus is not treated as a person. Causing a miscarriage is a property crime, not murder.
If abortion is murder, then unplugging a brain-dead family member from life support should be prosecuted too. Because guess what? A fetus before sentience has no subjective experience. No awareness. No consciousness. No “personhood.” It is ethically equivalent to ending life support on someone who has already lost the ability to experience anything at all. But they don’t want to hear that. Because logic ain’t welcome in the Gospel of Ike Turner. Which is the version of Christianity where violence against women is excused, justified, and sanctified.
As someone who has been assaulted many times, I will say this with my whole chest. I would not carry my rapist’s baby. That child was not conceived in love. It was not wanted. It was not chosen. And it was not consensual.
And as an adopted child, I know the psychological toll of being rejected. My birth mother looked me in the eyes and said, “You were an inconvenience and you still are.” Had she chosen abortion, it would’ve spared me decades of emotional torment. Adoption is not the soft, rosy alternative they pretend it is. It is trauma wrapped in a bow.
Let’s talk about the 10-year-old girl in Ohio who was raped by a 27-year-old man. She became pregnant. Her state refused her an abortion. She had to flee to another state like a fugitive. A child. Not a woman. Not a mother. A baby forced to carry a baby.
The physical damage alone could have killed her. The psychological damage will echo for decades. And abortion isn’t covered by insurance. So, unless you’ve got $600–$2,000 lying around, you’re stuck. Cruelty disguised as morality.
Let me tell you something plain, loud, and with the kind of Southern truth that doesn’t need sweet tea to go down smooth. Legal abortions are safer than the desperate, back‑alley horrors women were forced into before Roe. A medical abortion performed by trained professionals is one of the safest procedures in modern healthcare. It’s safer than childbirth. Safer than dental surgery. And safer than pretending purity culture ever protected anybody. But when you take that option away, women don’t stop needing abortions. They just stop having safe ones. And history shows exactly what happens next with coat hangers, bleach, stairs, trauma, infection, and death. Women bleeding out alone in bathrooms because lawmakers wanted moral points instead of medical reality. Criminalizing abortion doesn’t save lives. It sends women back into the shadows where they die trying to save themselves.
WHY ABORTION MUST BE LEGAL
1. Rape and incest survivors deserve bodily autonomy. No child or adult should be forced to carry their trauma.
Medical emergencies require immediate termination options. Ectopic pregnancies, sepsis, hemorrhaging where abortion saves lives.
Fetuses without sentience are not persons.Neuroscience confirms this.
People will always have sex. Morality does not override biology.
Contraception fails. Even perfect use has failure rates.
Forced birth increases poverty. The U.S. has the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world.
Adoption is not a cure-all. It is trauma for many children and mothers.
Unwanted children suffer lifelong consequences. Emotional, financial, psychological.
Criminalizing abortion criminalizes miscarriage. Women are already being investigated for spontaneous pregnancy loss.
Healthcare decisions belong to patients, not politicians. Period.
And if you need credible references, try these:
Guttmacher Institute
CDC Maternal Mortality Reports
American Psychological Association
American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists
National Institute of Mental Health
Pew Research Center
The Lancet Medical Journal
WHO Reproductive Health Data
Light the charcoal again because this needs a second burn. Abortion is healthcare. Abortion is mercy. Abortion is autonomy. Abortion is survival. And anyone who claims it’s “God’s will” while secretly protecting their own daughters is not righteous. They’re cowardly. They’re hypocrites. They’re weaponizing religion to control women.
If Christians want to call abortion murder, then they better start arresting every family who ever unplugged a loved one from life support. But they won’t. Because deep down, they know the truth. Sentience is the line. Consciousness is the line. Human experience is the line. And forcing birth is not holiness. It is cruelty dressed in scripture.
I stand with every woman who has ever had to make this decision. I stand with every survivor who refuses to carry their trauma. I stand with every child who deserves a life chosen. Not forced. And I stand with you, Southern sass, survivor strength, and ancestral fire. May the ancestors walk with us as we fight for the right to our own bodies. May the smoke rise and carry our truth. May the next generation inherit freedom, not fear.
Affirmation: I honor my body, my story, and my right to choose. My autonomy is sacred. My voice is powerful. And my ancestors walk beside me.
“When misinformation rises, let your ancestors steady your spirit and your sass sharpen your truth.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Let it crackle like your last nerve at Thanksgiving when Uncle Red-Hat started yelling about “Socialism Turning Us Into Communists!” Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors especially Big Mama, who survived segregation, three husbands, and that one church lady who kept stealing her potato salad recipe. Today, we are gather in the sacred, smoky glow of your living room m. To address the aggravation, frustration, and the spiritual constipation caused by folks who insist that socialism → democratic socialism → communism → gulags → the end of biscuits and freedom. The ancestors are already pacing. PawPaw whispered, “Lord give me strength.” And reached for his flask. And your great-aunt is clutching her pearls so hard they might turn into diamonds.
Let’s talk about the red-hat choir who believes any government program that doesn’t involve tax breaks for billionaires is “communism.” These are the same folks who cash Social Security checks. Use Medicare. Drive on publicly funded roads. Send their kids to public schools. And call the fire department when Earl deep-fries a turkey indoors. But the moment someone says, “Hey, maybe people shouldn’t die because they can’t afford insulin,” suddenly it’s, “Communism, Martha! Grab The Bible And The Bug-Out Bag!”
Pumpkin spice patriot, communism is not hiding behind your Kroger pharmacy waiting to jump out and seize your property. The ancestors are tired. Our spirit guides are tired. And even our pets are tired. It is emotionally exhausting watching people scream “Communism” at things that are literally not communism. It’s like watching someone confidently shout the wrong answers on Jeopardy. Or watching a toddler insist the moon is a cookie. Or watching your cat try to fight its own reflection. You want to help. You want to explain. But you also want to lay face-down on the floor and let the ancestors take you home.
Here’s the truth. Democratic socialism is not communism. Not historically. Not economically. Not ideologically. Not spiritually. Not even in the same group chat. Democratic socialism says, “Let’s keep democracy, elections, private businesses, and capitalism. But also make sure people don’t die because they can’t afford healthcare.” Communism says, “Let’s abolish private property. Centralize production. And run everything through the state.” These ideologies would not sit together at Thanksgiving. They wouldn’t even sit together at the DMV. Try telling that to someone who thinks “Karl Marx” is the name of a NASCAR driver.
11 Ways Socialism, Democratic Socialism, and Communism Are Not the Same Thing
1. Private property exists in socialism & democratic socialism. Not in communism. Your house? Yours. Your business? Yours. Your lawnmower? Still yours. Communism says, “The lawnmower belongs to the people.”
2. Democratic socialism requires elections. Communism does not. If you can vote for someone other than the ruling party, congratulations. That is not communism.
3. Socialism & democratic socialism use mixed economies. Communism uses central planning. One is capitalism with guardrails. The other is “the government decides how many shoes get made this year.”
4. Democratic socialism protects civil liberties. Communism historically restricts them. If you can complain about the government on Facebook without disappearing, that’s not communism.
5. Socialism & democratic socialism allow private businesses. Communism does not. Under socialism/democratic socialism, you can open a bakery. Under communism, the state owns the bakery, the flour, the ovens, and possibly the cats.
6. Democratic socialism focuses on social welfare. Communism focuses on class abolition. One says, “Let’s help people.” The other says, “Let’s restructure society from scratch.”
7. Socialism & democratic socialism keep markets. Communism eliminates them. If you can choose between Target and Walmart, you’re not in communism.
8. Democratic socialism works with capitalism. Communism replaces it. One is “Let’s fix the leaky roof.” The other is “Let’s burn the house down and rebuild it.”
9. Socialism & democratic socialism allow wealth differences. Communism seeks to eliminate them. Jeff Bezos still exists under socialism. Under communism, Jeff becomes “Citizen Jeff, warehouse worker.”
10. Democratic socialism preserves individual rights. Communism prioritizes collective control. One says, “You have rights.” The other says, “We’ll let you know what your rights are after the meeting.”
11. Socialism & democratic socialism operate within democratic frameworks. Communism does not. One keeps elections, courts, and civil liberties. The other historically centralizes power in the state.
So, the next time someone looks you dead in the eye usually while wearing a shirt with an eagle, a flag, and a Bible all photoshopped together and says, “Socialism leads to communism!” I want you to pause. Take a breath. Let the sage smoke swirl around your head like you’re summoning every ancestor who ever had to explain something obvious to someone determined to misunderstand it. Then smile. Not a regular smile. A Southern smile. The kind that says, “Bless your heart,” without ever using the words. And respond, gently but firmly by saying, “If socialism leads to communism, then your Social Security check is a gateway drug.”Watch their face do that little twitch. You know the one. The twitch that means their brain is trying to reboot like an old Dell computer from 1998.
Then continue. Because this is your moment. “If democratic socialism leads to communism, then your Medicare card is a communist passport. Your public school is a Marxist training camp. And the fire department that saved Earl’s house when he deep-fried that turkey indoors? That’s a taxpayer-funded socialist miracle.”
Let it sink in. Let the silence marinate like chicken in buttermilk. Because you are not arguing with facts. You are arguing with feelings dressed up as fear. Sprinkled with misinformation. Wrapped in Facebook memes. And deep-fried in cable news.
And you have survived far worse. You have survived humidity so thick it feels like soup. You have survived hurricanes, power outages, and men who say, “I’ll fix it later.” You have survived PTA meetings, school fundraisers, and children who wait until 10 PM to tell you they need poster board for a project due tomorrow. You can survive this conversation.
So, walk away. Let the charcoal crackle behind you like applause. Let the ancestors cackle like they’re watching a soap opera. Let your spirit guides fan you with palm leaves and whisper, “You did good, baby.” Because trying to have a conversation with people who are willfully ignorant, are usually the very ones who ate boogers and glue during their childhood. And never outgrew those behaviors.
Because we, at This Puzzled Life, are armed with humor, truth, and the kind of ancestral backup that could move mountains. And when misinformation rises, you rise higher. Mic dropped. Mic shattered. Mic reincarnated as a wiser mic. Thanks for reading! What other political nonsense would you like for me to address?
Affirmation: I speak truth with humor, courage, and ancestral backup. I am unshaken. Unbothered. And fully hydrated.
“I don’t need a crown to know my worth. I’ve survived too much to bow now.”
-This Puzzled Life, Patron Saint of Showing Up Anyway
Light the charcoal, because apparently the nation has decided we’re doing this again. Another No Kings Protest. Another day where half the country shows up with handmade signs. The other half shows up with folding chairs, and everyone collectively agrees that monarchy is for fairy tales, not for a country where we can’t even agree on how to pronounce “pecan.”
I woke up this morning to the sound of my neighbor yelling, “Who took my sharpie?!” Which is how you know democracy is alive and well in the Deep South. Nothing says civic engagement like a grown man in pajama pants sprinting across the yard holding a poster board that says, “No Crowns, Just Accountability.” Bless it.
Every No Kings protest starts the same way. Someone burns the first batch of hot dogs. Someone else insists they “know a shortcut.” And a third person is already crying because they forgot sunscreen and emotional stability at home. Meanwhile, I’m in the kitchen trying to pack snacks like I’m preparing for a Category 5 hurricane instead of a march. Because if there’s one thing I know about Southern protests, it is that you will get hungry and sweaty. And someone will absolutely try to hand you a pamphlet you did not ask for.
We arrive at the protest. Immediately I’m hit with the smell of sunscreen and determination. And at least three people who definitely pregamed with boxed wine. There’s always one person with a megaphone who has no business having a megaphone. Today it’s a woman named Sheila who keeps yelling, “NO KINGS. NO CROWNS. NO NONSENSE.” Even though she’s wearing a Burger King paper crown she claims is “ironic.” Sure, Sheila. Sure.
Then there’s the guy who brought a drum. There is always a drum. And he always hits it off‑beat like he’s trying to summon democracy from the dead. But the signs. Oh, the signs. They’re the emotional core of the whole thing:
“NO KINGS. WE ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH FAMILY DRAMA.”
“DEMOCRACY: MESSY BUT MINE.”
“I’M JUST HERE BECAUSE MY THERAPIST SAID, ‘USE YOUR OUTSIDE VOICE.’”
I saw one that said, “NO KINGS. NO GODS. JUST VOTERS.” And I swear I felt my ancestors nod.
Somewhere between the chanting, sweating and the existential dread, it hits me. We’re not out here because it’s fun. We’re out here because we’re tired. Tired of being talked over. Tired of being dismissed. Tired of watching people in power act like the rest of us are NPCs in their personal video game.
We’re out here because we know what silence costs. We’re out here because someone has to be loud. We’re out here because our kids deserve better than whatever this political Jenga tower is.
At one point, a man tripped over a cooler and yelled, “This is why we can’t have a king. We can’t even have a cordless microphone.” A toddler held up a sign that said “NO” because that’s all they could write. And honestly it was the most accurate message of the day. When the wind blew everyone’s posters backward, we all looked like we were protesting ourselves. Which honestly felt spiritually correct. There is nothing quite as unintentionally hilarious as a conservative Christian explaining the world to you with the confidence of someone who has never once questioned their own Wi‑Fi password.
These are the same folks who will look you dead in the eye and say things like:
“We don’t believe in kings.” While simultaneously worshipping any man with a microphone and a Bible verse taped to his podium.
“We’re persecuted.” While standing in a Hobby Lobby the size of a small airport.
“We’re just defending traditional values.” Which apparently include casseroles, judgment, and pretending not to see their own family drama.
They say it all with the sincerity of a toddler handing you a drawing of a dinosaur that looks like a potato. They mean well. They just don’t land the plane.
My personal favorite is when they try to explain why they’re against something they’ve never actually experienced. “You know, I just don’t agree with that lifestyle.” Which lifestyle, Brenda? The one you saw on a Facebook meme posted by a woman named “Patriots4Jesus1776?” Or the one you’ve never actually talked to a real human about?
And then there’s the classic, “I’m not judging, I’m just saying.” If you have to announce you’re not judging, you’re already halfway to the potluck with a casserole dish full of judgment and shredded cheese.
But the funniest part that makes me laugh so hard I need to sit down is how they always think they’re delivering some profound truth. Like they’re dropping wisdom from Mount Sinai when really they’re just repeating something their cousin Earl said at Thanksgiving between bites of deviled eggs.
So, here’s the thing, y’all. We don’t need crowns. We don’t need thrones. And we sure don’t need anybody trying to cosplay as royalty in a country that can barely keep the Wi‑Fi stable during a thunderstorm. We’ve got our voices. We’ve got our people. We’ve got our stubborn, sweaty, snack‑powered determination. And if anybody’s still confused about where we stand? We stand right here loud. Unbothered. Unbowed. And reminding the nation that the only thing we kneel for is tying our shoes.
By the end of the day, my feet hurt. And my soul felt like it had been wrung out like a dish rag. But the charcoal was still warm. The people were still loud. And the message was still clear. No kings. No crowns. No giving up.
We may be messy, sweaty, snack‑dependent chaos gremlins. But we show up. We show up for each other. We show up for the future. We show up because silence is a luxury we don’t have. And we’ll keep showing up with charcoal lit. Signs crooked. Hearts wide open until the message sticks.
We joke about protesting like it’s America’s new weekend sport. But the truth underneath isn’t funny at all. We’re living through corruption stacked sky‑high. Child‑abuse coverups that should’ve shattered entire systems. Foreign intelligence games happening in plain sight. ICE acting like a secret police force. Free speech under attack. Minority communities scapegoated on repeat. Billionaires treating democracy like a clearance sale. And someone out here fantasizing about the East Wing like it’s a tyrant starter kit.
And the loudest danger of all is White Nationalism. It’s cruelty dressed up as Christianity. Cheered on by conservative Christians who swear it’s holy because someone slapped Jesus’ name on it. We laugh to stay human. But we protest because the danger is real. Thanks for reading! There Are No Kings In America!
Affirmation: Today I stand loud, steady, and unshakeable. I honor my voice, my boundaries, and my fire. I refuse to shrink for anyone who benefits from my silence. I rise because I can, and I keep rising because I’m built for more than fear.
