Comedian

darnold1975

The Kennedy Who Should’ve Been Left at the Gas Station

“When the fools get loud, the wise get louder.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Today, we are not just telling a story. We are opening a spiritual case file. Flipping through the receipts. And calling on every grandmother who ever whispered, “Lord, give me strength,” while stirring a pot of beans on low heat.

Pull up a chair. Settle your spirit. And let the smoke rise like a prayer. The absolute mess we’re about to discuss requires divine intervention. Celestial supervision. And at least three ancestors who died with their arms crossed and their eyebrows raised.

The charcoal is crackling. The veil is thin. And the ancestors are already leaning in like, “Child, what did he do now?”

In this satirical universe where chaos reigns. And common sense is on sabbatical. Government officials behave like they were raised by feral raccoons. We must call upon the old ones. Because only the ancestors can help us process the level of unhinged, backwoods, science‑dodging, roadkill‑collecting foolishness we’re about to unpack. So, gather ‘round. Let the smoke carry our disbelief to the heavens. The ancestors are already clutching their pearls. Let’s begin.

A Fully Unhinged Exposé Of Robert Kennedy, Jr.

  1. He collects roadkill like a buzzard with a coupon book. And raccoon peeners? Top of the list. He calls them “nature’s USB drives.” No one knows why.
  2. He claims a brain worm once ate part of his brain. The worm died of starvation. Scientists are still apologizing to the worm’s family.
  3. He once found a dead bear cub. Tossed it in his SUV. And staged it in Central Park as a bicycle accident. What in the Caucasian hell was the artistic vision here? “Bear on Wheels: A Tragedy?”
  4. He chainsawed the head off a whale and strapped it to the family minivan. With his family inside. Nothing says “summer vacation” like whale decapitation.
  5. He spreads anti‑vaccine propaganda like it’s essential oils for the soul. Meanwhile, measles is back like a 90s boy band reunion tour.
  6. He claims Tylenol and vaccines cause autism.Genetics: “Hi, yes, hello, it’s literally me.”
  7. He blames chemicals and antidepressants for school shootings instead of guns or germs.This is the kind of logic you get when your brain worm files for unemployment.
  8. He gutted the CDC and FDA like a catfish at a Baptist fish fry. mRNA development? Gone. Science? On lunch break.
  9. “Zombie Programs” remain funded but inactive. Alzheimer’s tracking, epilepsy data, smoking research all ghosted like a bad Tinder date.
  10. Milk testing programs paused. Because who needs safe milk? Just roll the dice, America.
  11. Foodborne disease surveillance cut from eight pathogens to two. Cyclospora, the explosive diarrhea parasite, now running free like it’s on spring break.
  12. Salmonella linked to eggs, jalapeños, salsa, guacamole. Basically, anything that makes life worth living.
  13. E. coli linked to frozen blueberries. Even your smoothie is trying to kill you.
  14. Listeria linked to soft cheeses. Brie has become a weapon of mass destruction.
  15. Emerging diseases everywhere. Measles, SARS, MERS, HIV, Lyme, Hantavirus, Dengue, West Nile, Malaria, TB, Ebola, Cholera, Pertussis, Influenza, Pneumococcal, Gonorrhea, and Zika. It’s like Pokémon but the “gotta catch ’em all” is involuntary.
  16. WI-FI causes brain cancer. Oh Lord, not this one. If that were true, half the South would’ve ascended to glory the minute we plugged in the first Walmart router. My ancestors did not survive plagues, droughts, and cousins marrying cousins just for me to be taken out by the same signal that lets me watch cat videos at 2 a.m. And every teenager with an iPhone glued to their skull would be glowing like a microwave burrito. The ancestors are looking down like, “Child that’s not how any of this works.”
  17. He’s a former heroin addict. Nothing says “health leadership” like a résumé that reads like a cautionary tale.

And so, as we stand here in the Deep South. With humidity thick enough to baptize a biscuit. Mosquitoes big enough to file W‑2s. And diseases spreading faster than gossip at a Pentecostal baby shower. We must confront the catastrophic reality of this administration.

Robert Kennedy, Jr. has turned the Department of Health into a haunted Cracker Barrel gift shop. The CDC is now operating out of a storage unit behind a Dollar Tree. The FDA is holding meetings in a Waffle House booth between fights. And the nation’s food safety program is being run by a man who thinks Wi‑Fi is a brain‑melting death ray. And raccoon peeners are collectible scientific artifacts.

This man has staged bear cub bicycle accidents. Decapitated whales for “research.” And gutted disease surveillance so badly that even the pathogens are confused. Cyclospora is out here hosting explosive‑diarrhea raves in salad bowls. Salmonella is moonlighting in guacamole. Listeria is hiding in brie like it’s playing peek‑a‑boo with your intestines. E. coli is chilling in frozen blueberries like it’s on a wellness retreat.

Meanwhile, Robert Kennedy, Jr. is wandering the halls of government wrapped in tin foil. Muttering about brain worms, Wi‑Fi demons, and antidepressants causing school shootings. My ancestors have stopped pacing and started drinking. My cats have filed for emancipation. And somewhere in the distance, a raccoon is whispering, “I didn’t consent to any of this.”

America is being run by a cabinet of swamp goblins who think science is a rumor. And public health is a suggestion. We are one bad decision away from the CDC issuing guidelines like, “If your milk glows, don’t drink it.” “If your salad screams, throw it out.” “If your Wi‑Fi router starts chanting, unplug it and pray.”

This administration is not just incompetent. It’s aggressively committed to the art of being wrong. They are running the country like a cursed potluck where every dish gives you diarrhea. And every beverage is room‑temperature milk.

So here it is the final truth. The last nerve snapping. The mic dropping so hard it cracks the floor. Vote these clowns out before they kill us all. Not in a poetic sense. Not in a metaphorical sense. But in the very real sense that I would like to eat cheese, blueberries, and guacamole again without fearing explosive gastrointestinal fireworks. Charcoal still smoking. Ancestors packing their bags. Cats already gone. America deserves better than a man who thinks Wi‑Fi is a death beam. And raccoon anatomy is a hobby. Thank for reading! Get out and vote! “Which is more concerning? The raccoon situation? Or the fact that none of us are even surprised anymore?”

Affirmation: I release chaos that isn’t mine. Protect my peace. And refuse to fear Wi‑Fi because of swamp goblins.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Mental Health Bingo Card

“Even on my messiest days, I am still becoming someone I’m proud of.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up another episode of Southern‑chaotic mental health excellence. And this time we’re serving it on a Mental Health Bingo Card hotter than a Mississippi parking lot in July. And all because my brain apparently woke up this morning and said, “Let’s play a game.” Not a fun game like spades or Uno where you can cuss your family out and still get invited to Thanksgiving. But a full‑blown, unhinged round of “Let’s play Mental Health Bingo.” And I, being the responsible adult I pretend to be, just sighed and said, “Sure. Why not. I’ve survived worse. Like Mississippi humidity and group texts.” I printed my little bingo card. Took one look at it and immediately whispered, “Oh Lord. I’ve already got three in a row and it’s not even noon.”

Here are the 10 spaces on my Mental Health Bingo card this week. Each one earned with the grace of a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.

  • Cried in the car-Bonus points because it was in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru.
  • Forgot to eat-But remembered coffee, cannabis, chaos, and anxiety.
  • Overshared with a stranger-The cashier now knows my childhood wounds.
  • Started a new hobby at 3 a.m.-Crochet? Witchcraft? Who knows.
  • Reorganized the entire house-Instead of dealing with my emotions.
  • Googled symptoms-Diagnosed myself with 14 conditions and a personality I don’t have.
  • Had a fake argument in the shower-And won.
  • Stared at the wall for 27 minutes-Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything.
  • Said “I’m fine” while crying-A classic. A staple. A cultural artifact.
  • Therapy homework not done-But I did alphabetize my spices.

By 4 p.m., I had a full, glorious, diagonal BINGO like the emotionally unstable champion I am. So naturally, I strutted into therapy like I had just won the Olympics. I sat down. Crossed my legs like a Southern auntie about to spill tea, and said, “Ma’am I got BINGO.” And I slid that card across the table like it was a winning lottery ticket.

My therapist’s response? She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked back at it. Then she said, “Well I’m proud of you for tracking your patterns. I’m slightly concerned that you blacked out an entire row before breakfast. But I admire the commitment. This is the most enthusiastic self-reporting I’ve ever seen. Should I congratulate you? Or schedule an extra session?” Then she added, “Also, please stop oversharing with strangers. That woman at Walgreens did not need to know about your existential crisis over toothpaste.”

And as I left therapy, I swear I heard my ancestors whisper, “We survived plagues, wars, and the Great Depression. But this? This bingo card? This is new.” But listen. If healing is a journey, then I’m out here collecting stamps like a chaotic little passport official. And if Mental Health Bingo is wrong, I don’t want to be right. BINGO, baby.

And as I walked out of therapy clutching my laminated Mental Health Bingo card like it was the Declaration of Independence, something in me shifted. I felt accomplished. Victorious. Slightly unhinged. But in a cute way. Like a raccoon wearing lip gloss. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect crystals. Some people collect red flags like they’re Pokémon. But me? I collect emotional plot twists.

Every square on that bingo card was a tiny little badge of honor. Proof that I am out here doing the absolute most with the absolute least. I’m surviving on vibes, caffeine, cannabis, and the sheer audacity to keep showing up. And I’m proud of me. Not the Pinterest version of me. Not the “I have my life together” LinkedIn version of me. Not the “I only cry on weekends” version of me. No. I’m proud of the version of me who wakes up every day and chooses to keep going. Even when my brain is acting like a Walmart intercom system glitching during a thunderstorm.

I’m proud of the me who laughs through the chaos. Who heals crooked but heals anyway. Who turns breakdowns into blog posts. And therapy homework into performance art. So yeah, I got BINGO. And next week? I might get blackout. But that’s growth. Card stamped. Healing in progress. Thanks for reading! What square on your own mental health bingo card did you hit this week? And did you earn it with the chaotic flair of a true Southern champion?

Affirmation: I celebrate my progress. Honor my humanity. And allow joy to exist even in the chaos.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

If the South Got Hold of the DSM, This Is Exactly What It Would Look Like

“If you can’t fix it, fry it. If you can’t fry it, bless it.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. If we’re going to rewrite the DSM the way Southerners would actually diagnose each other, we need the grill hot. The humidity is thick enough to baptize you involuntarily. And at least one casserole is cooling on the counter like a therapy emotional support animal.

Picture this. A mental health clinic run entirely by Southern aunties. Not licensed. Not certified. But spiritually ordained by the power vested in them through gossip, Jesus, and generational spite. The waiting room smells like White Diamonds perfume and Velveeta. The intake forms ask questions like this.

  • “Do you cry in the Dollar General parking lot? Or the Walmart one?”
  • “Do you prefer your emotional breakdowns fried or baked?”
  • “Has an ancestor recently appeared to tell you to stop dating trash?”

Your ancestors gather in the corner like a spectral support group, whispering, “Baby, that ain’t depression. That’s just your spirit trying to clock out early because you keep ignoring the signs.” One ancestor fans herself dramatically. Another pulls out a folding chair like she’s about to watch a fight. A third one mutters, “Lord, give that child some boundaries.”

Welcome to the Bless‑Your‑Heart Mental Health Clinic. Where the diagnoses are seasoned. The advice is unsolicited. And the emotional support snacks are mandatory.

THE 10 SOUTHERN DSM DIAGNOSES THAT WILL NEVER PASS COMMITTEE (BUT SHOULD)

1. Bless‑Your‑Heart Burnout

A uniquely Southern exhaustion that occurs when you’ve been polite for too long. And your soul starts filing HR complaints.

Symptoms include: 

·     Smiling while dying inside.

  • Saying “it’s fine” in a tone that means “I’m about to set something on fire.”
  • Being the family’s emotional support possum since age seven.
  • Crying silently while making deviled eggs.

Treatment: A nap, a boundary, and a casserole you don’t have to share.

2. Sunday Scaries but Biblical

A spiritual condition where you fear Monday, the Rapture, and running into Sister Linda at Walmart all at once.

Symptoms include:

  • Feeling judged by Jesus and your mee-maw simultaneously.
  • Sudden urge to repent for things you didn’t even do.
  • Heart palpitations triggered by church group texts.

Treatment: A long bath, a longer nap, and ignoring your pastor’s Facebook posts.

3. Anxiety With a Side of Casserole

You’re spiraling. But you still show up with a Pyrex dish because manners.

Symptoms include:

  • Overthinking while preheating the oven.
  • Crying into shredded cheese.
  • Apologizing to inanimate objects.

Treatment: Therapy + carbs.

4. Generational Guilt Gumbo

A thick emotional stew seasoned with:

  • “Your great‑granddaddy didn’t fight in the war for you to nap.”
  • “We don’t talk about that side of the family.”
  • “Fix your face before it freezes like that.”

Treatment: Breaking cycles. Sage smoke. And ignoring Aunt Brenda.

5. Passive‑Aggressive Hospitality Disorder

You will offer sweet tea to your worst enemy and then talk about them for three hours after they leave.

Symptoms:

  • Weaponized politeness.
  • Compliments that feel like threats.
  • Hosting events you resent.

Treatment: Learning to say “no” without adding “but if you really need me.”

6. Sweet Tea–Induced Overconfidence

Symptoms include believing you can:

  • Fix a man.
  • Fix a carburetor.
  • Fix your life All incorrect.

Treatment: Hydration. Real hydration. With water.

7. Blessed & Stressed Syndrome

You’re grateful. You’re overwhelmed. You’re crying in the Dollar General parking lot.

Symptoms:

  • Saying “I’m blessed” while twitching.
  • Buying seasonal décor as a coping mechanism.
  • Emotional support Dr Pepper.

Treatment: A day off, a hug, and someone else handling dinner.

8. Porch Swing Existentialism

Staring into the distance like a Civil War widow while contemplating your purpose, your past, and whether you left the stove on.

Symptoms:

  • Sudden philosophical monologues.
  • Rocking chair-induced revelations.
  • Questioning everything except your love for biscuits.

Treatment: A breeze, a journal, and a break from people named Tammy.

9. Y’all Fatigue

A social exhaustion disorder caused by:

  • Too many group texts.
  • Too many church committees.
  • Too many people named Tammy.

 Symptoms include:

  • Avoiding calls.
  • Hiding in your car.
  • Whispering “I can’t do this today” into your steering wheel.

Treatment: Silence. Blessed, holy silence.

10. Ancestor Interference Episode

When your great‑great‑grandma’s ghost pops in to say, “Baby, that man is not your ministry.”

Symptoms:

  • Sudden chills.
  • Hearing “mmhmm” from the beyond.
  • Feeling judged by people who died before indoor plumbing.

Treatment: Listening. They’re never wrong.

Let me tell you something. If Southerners wrote the DSM, they wouldn’t just diagnose you. They’d claim you. Feed you. Pray over you. Roast you. And then send you home with leftovers and a warning. They’d hand you a casserole and a coping mechanism in the same breath. They’d tell you to hydrate. Set boundaries. And stop dating people who look like they smell like disappointment. Your therapist would be confused. Your pastor would be concerned. Your mee-maw would say, “Well, I always knew that child was touched.”

And your ancestors? Your ancestors would be standing in the corner like a spiritual hype squad. While fanning themselves with funeral‑home fans and whispering, “Tell it, baby. Tell it. They need this word.” Because they’ve watched you try to hold everything together with duct tape, sweet tea, and emotional suppression so thick it could be used as grout. They’ve watched you say, “I’m fine” in the same tone someone uses to lie on a witness stand. They’ve watched you carry generational trauma like it’s a monogrammed tote bag.

And they are tired. They want better for you. They want softer for you. They want you to stop letting people with the emotional intelligence of a wet paper plate have access to your spirit. So, here’s the real, Southern‑fried, spiritually seasoned truth. You deserve rest that doesn’t feel like guilt. You deserve joy that doesn’t feel like a chore. You deserve boundaries that don’t require a PowerPoint presentation. You deserve a life that doesn’t feel like a group project where you’re doing all the work. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise? Your ancestors will rise up like a holy wind through the magnolia trees and whisper directly into your ear, “Baby, that ain’t your ministry. Put it down.”

So go on. Take your sweet tea. Take your casserole. Take your emotional support porch swing. Take your entire lineage of loud, opinionated, spiritually nosy ancestors and walk boldly into your peace like you’re entering a potluck with the best damn mac and cheese in the room. Because you are. And you do. And you will. Because if Southerners wrote the DSM, therapy would come with a potluck sign‑up sheet. Diagnoses would be delivered with a hug and a warning. And every session would end with, “Now go on, sugar. Hydrate and mind your business.” Your ancestors approve. Your therapist is concerned. And that’s balance. Thanks for reading! Which casserole‑powered coping strategy gets you through the week?

Affirmation: I am divinely guided. Ancestrally protected. And emotionally supported by casseroles.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I’ve Had It Podcast: The Southern Sass Survival Guide for Blue Dots in Red States

“Sometimes the only thing keeping me from losing my already lost religion is two Oklahoma women yelling about petty grievances.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors. Preferably the messy ones. The ones who show up wearing house shoes. Clutching a gas‑station fountain drink. And whispering, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this one.”

Because today, we gather in the sacred, humid, mosquito‑infested, spiritually charged arena to praise. Roast. And spiritually hydrate the chaotic holiness that is the I’ve Had It Podcast. The only place where two white liberal women from the red MAGA plains of Oklahoma have somehow built a sanctuary for every exhausted blue‑dot soul trying to survive in a country where people still proudly drink out of Stanley cups like it’s a personality trait. Let me set the table like MeeMaw used to that is loud. And with sweet tea strong enough to dissolve enamel.

Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan aren’t just podcasters. They are the patron saints of Petty Grievances. The matriarchs of Messy Liberation. And the spiritual mothers of every liberal woman trapped in a red state. While trying not to throat‑punch someone at the grocery store.

Jennifer, the sarcastically blunt atheist queen, speaks with the kind of clarity that only comes from years of saying, “No, actually, that is stupid” out loud. She’s the type of woman who could walk into a revival tent. Sneeze. And accidentally deconstruct someone’s entire theology. On a side note I’ll also say that she is an Olympic level Pickle Ball Champion like we’ve never seen before in the history of the world.

Then there’s Pumps. Lord help us all. Pumps is a recovering evangelical, the HBIC (Head Beaver In Charge), the teeny weenieologist, the MeeMaw Meat Curtains because she is much older than Jennifer. And apparently the patron saint of Asexuality in the Bible Belt. Her last sexual encounter was somewhere around 1,000 days ago. And Jennifer multiplies that number tenfold with each episode until the math starts giving Old Testament genealogy. We’re approaching, “And on the 40,000th day, Pumps rested.”

And presiding over this circus of holy chaos is Kiley. The beautiful lesbian gaytriot producer who keeps the entire operation from combusting. She’s the glue, the duct tape, the Queer Logistics Coordinator who ensures Jennifer and Pumps don’t accidentally start a small fire while recording. She produces the hilarious fuckery with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how chaotic these two can be.

As a white liberal sarcastic woman myself from the red MAGA state of Mississippi, these ladies have become my emotional support podcast. They take the isolation of wanting equal rights for everyone. While surrounded by neighbors who think democracy is optional. And turn it into a family. A loud, hilarious politically petty family that supports all marginalized groups and stands up for democracy. Despite the red hatred swirling around them.

And let me tell you. And their nicknames for politicians? Baby, they speak fluent Southern shade. People like Donald “Cankles McTaco Tits” Trump, Moses Mike Grindr Johnson, the late Lindsey “Lady” Graham, “Big Titty” Bryon Knoem, “Smokey-eyed sociopath” JD Vance, “Lyin’” Ted Cruz, Flamboyant Jesse “Lady” Waters with Fox News, Natalie “The Bunny Boiler” Harp, Markwayne “Booster Box” Mullin, and others. I heard that recently they both spoke with Mitch “Dead Not Dead” McConnell for twenty minutes from his life support rehabilitation unit. They roast public figures with the same energy my Aunt Linda uses when she says, “I’m not saying she’s trashy. But she does own a leopard‑print Bible cover.”

They expose the closetocracy, the folks who legislate against the very community they enjoy on weekends, with surgical precision and the comedic timing only two women who have truly had it can deliver. Are they crass? Yes. Do they speak my language? Absolutely. Do they have a low tolerance for stupidity? Honey, they have a negative tolerance.

And Pumps, sweet Pumps, if she would stop vaping like she’s trying to summon a Civil War ghost, Jennifer might finally unclench. And if she would please stop pooping in Styrofoam cups like she’s conducting a science fair project, the online audience would stop peeing on ourselves from laughing. Get it together, Pumps. At least the saggin’ dragons are secured.

These women have been my morning oxygen for over a year. They are my people that are  hilarious. And, at times, inappropriate. Unfiltered. Compassionate. And petty in all the right places. If you’re a prude. Easily offended. Or still clinging to conservative Christianity where some Christians use scripture as a mascot for cruelty, this is not your ministry.

But if you’re like me a blue dot in a red state. A queer person whose family can’t quite figure out acceptance. Or someone who needs laughter more than judgment. These ladies feel like home. They are the family I needed. The humor I craved. And the reminder that democracy is worth fighting for even when surrounded by folks who think Jesus rode a dinosaur. And if island living as a blue dot in a red state is what it takes, then baby, I’ll take my new family without question.

So let me say this with the full force of my ancestors, my sass, my trauma, my cats, and my last functioning nerve. The I’ve Had It Podcast isn’t just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s community. It’s the comedic resistance movement for every marginalized person living in a state where Hobby Lobby aisles are filled with people who think equality is a threat to their throw pillows.

Jennifer, Pumps, and Kiley have built a refuge for the tired, the queer, the liberal, the fed‑up, the chronically sarcastic, and the spiritually dehydrated. They’ve given us permission to laugh at the absurdity of our political landscape. To call out hypocrisy with humor. And to find joy in the middle of a country that feels like it’s being run by people who failed eighth‑grade civics. And who ate boogers and glue but never outgrew those behaviors.

I will be a loyal gaytriot as long as these ladies are around. I will follow them into the trenches of democracy, petty grievances, and Pumps’ colon‑control journey. I will take this island living. This blue dot existence. And choose my new family without hesitation.

Thank you, ladies, for your humor, your compassion, and your unapologetic refusal to tolerate bullshit in this tumultuous time. You are the laughter that keeps us fighting. CACAW!!!! Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Humidity rising. Ancestors hollering, “That’s Right, Baby!” Thanks for reading! Please tune in every day to the I’ve Had It podcast for political news with lots of humor.

Affirmation: I honor my truth, humor, identity, and my chosen family. I choose joy. I choose community. And I choose to laugh loudly. Even in the places that try to silence me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Coping Skills I Learned on Social Media

“Healing is messy, hilarious, and inconvenient. And sometimes smells like essential oils.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Because today we are diving into the chaotic swamp of Coping Skills I Learned on Social Media. And according to the internet, all my trauma can be cured with a mason jar, a deep breath, and a girl named Moonbeam who lives in a van and sells chakra stickers on Etsy. Now with a special guest appearance from my therapist. She has thoughts, feelings, and possibly a migraine because of me.

I used to think coping skills were things you learned in therapy from trained professionals with degrees and clipboards. But no. Social media said, “Move over, licensed clinicians. We’ve got influencers with ring lights.” Suddenly my For You Page became a spiritual Walgreens. One swipe: grounding techniques. Next swipe: breathwork tutorials. Next swipe: “Put lavender oil on your forehead and tell your inner child she’s a baddie.” And listen. I tried them all. Because I’m nothing if not committed to healing. And also easily influenced by people who speak in soft voices and have plants.

1. Grounding Techniques (aka: Sensory Hide & Seek)

Social media told me to ground myself by naming five things I can see. So, there I was. Mid-anxiety spiral whispering, “A lamp. A cat. Another cat. A third cat A pile of laundry judging me. Did it help? Honestly yes. Because halfway through, Piper knocked over a cup. Coco screamed like a banshee. And Tinkerbell tried to eat the sage. Suddenly my anxiety had competition.

2. Breathwork (aka: Hyperventilating, but make it mindful)

Every influencer says the same thing, “Just breathe.” Ma’am I’ve been breathing. That’s the one thing I’ve consistently done since birth. But I tried the 4-6 method. Inhale for 4. Exhale for 6. Repeat until calm or until you pass out. And wake up spiritually refreshed.

At one point I inhaled so dramatically I sounded like a Victorian woman about to faint on a chaise lounge. Piper walked in and asked, “Are you okay or are you summoning something?” Honestly, both.

3. Lavender Oil Girl

There’s always one girl. She’s on every platform. She has perfect skin. A soft voice. And a house that looks like a Pinterest board. She says things like, “Lavender oil cured my generational trauma.” Ma’am my generational trauma is from the south. It has roots. It has acreage. It has a porch. Lavender oil is not strong enough. But I dabbed it on my wrists anyway because I’m weak and easily influenced. Did it cure my trauma? No. Did it make me smell like a Whole Foods aisle? Absolutely.

 4. The Cold-Water Trick

“Put your face in ice water to reset your nervous system.” I tried it. I dunked my whole face in a bowl like a Labrador retrieving a tennis ball. Did it help? Yes. Because for 30 seconds, I forgot every problem I’ve ever had.

5. My Therapist’s Opinion (aka: The Professional Sigh Heard ‘Round the World)

Now let’s talk about my therapist. She’s a woman with the patience of Job. The stamina of a kindergarten teacher. And the facial expressions of someone silently asking God for strength. When I told her I’d been practicing coping skills I learned on social media, she blinked three times. Which is the clinical equivalent of buffering and said, “Okay, let’s unpack that.” Which is therapist code for, “Lord, give me the strength not to laugh. Cry. Or quit my job.”

I explained the grounding, the breathwork, the lavender oil, the ice-water face dunking, and the inner-child pep talks. She nodded slowly like someone watching a toddler proudly show them a macaroni necklace. Then she said, “I’m glad you’re trying things. But maybe let’s add some skills that don’t involve drowning yourself in a mixing bowl.” Honestly? Fair.

So, what have I learned from social media coping skills? That healing is a buffet. Take what works. Leave what doesn’t. Laugh at the rest. Grounding helps. Breathwork helps. Lavender oil smells nice. And that girl on TikTok who cured her generational trauma? Good for her. My ancestors said I need something stronger. Like therapy, boundaries, hydration, and maybe a nap that lasts from now until next Tuesday.

But the truth is. If it brings you peace, even for a moment, it counts. Healing doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours. Mic drop. Lavender-scented, but still a mic drop. Thanks for reading! I hope you had a good laugh. Have you noticed any other random social media coping skills?

Affirmation: I am grounding. Breathing. Healing. And laughing my way 
through the chaos one lavender-scented coping skill at a time.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Prayer So Wild Even the Angels Clocked Out Early

“Some prayers lift the spirit. Others just lift the eyebrows.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Hide your children, your casseroles, and your common sense. Because what I witnessed at that unfortunate local Mississippi event wasn’t a prayer. It was a theological Nascar crash. And every angel in heaven refused to file the insurance claim.

Picture it. A field full of red hats bobbing like a colony of patriotic mushrooms. The air thick with humidity, Axe body spray, and generational resentment. A folding table sagging under the weight of mayonnaise‑based salads. And a speaker system held together with duct tape and denial.

Then he stepped forward. The Chosen One of the Red‑Hat Prayer Circle. A man built like a refrigerator with opinions. A man whose shirt had more eagles than the actual sky. A man who looked like he’d been baptized in Monster Energy. He grabbed the microphone like he was about to drop a mixtape called “Gospel of the Grievance.” 

He clears his throat like he’s about to summon the Holy Ghost, the founding fathers, and the HOA board all at once. And then. Lord help us. He opened his mouth.

What came out was not a prayer. It was not a blessing. It was not even a coherent sentence structure. It was a spiritual Yelp review written by a man who thinks the Holy Trinity is God, Country, and Bathroom Legislation. Then he begins The Prayer. The one that made the angels file HR complaints.

“Heavenly Father. We come before you today under this blessed Mississippi sun. Which you made hotter every year to punish the radical left for their wickedness.

Lord, we know that every single problem in this world can be traced back to them. The hurricanes? The liberals. The price of eggs? The liberals. My gout flaring up last Tuesday? Father God, that was the liberals too.

And Lord, we thank you that our sins don’t count. Because we carry the “Jesus Warranty.” We swipe it like a rewards card. We sin. We repent. We sin again. And you just keep stamping that little heavenly punch card. But the liberals, Lord? Unforgivable. They are the real ones on the predatory registry. Not all the republicans. But that’s none of my business, Father.

Lord, we thank You that here in Mississippi, we stay focused on the things that matter most like genitals, bathrooms, and our loyal governor who kneels so faithfully before the Orange Messiah. He bends the knee so hard, Lord, he’s got calluses shaped like patriotism.

Father, we lift up the windmills to you. Those demonic pinwheels of destruction. They’re out there slaughtering birds. Driving whales insane. And screaming so loud they give people cancer. Lord, we know the whales are acting up because they can’t handle the noise. They’re liberals at heart, Father. Sensitive. Emotional. Always protesting something.

And Lord, we rebuke the immigrants who are coming here to eat our dogs and cats. We know this because someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s Facebook post said so. And that’s good enough for us.

Father, protect us from the left trying to make everyone gay and transgender. They’re out here handing out pronouns like coupons. Even though they say that pronouns are in the English language. And that’s also a hoax. Next thing you know, my truck’s gonna identify as a Prius.

Lord, we thank you for the brave idea of firing nuclear weapons into hurricanes. We know it would’ve worked if the deep state hadn’t interfered. We thank you for the tariffs on penguins, Father. The money is pouring in. We don’t know where from. But it’s pouring in.

We thank you for answering our prayer about gasoline. It’s the lowest it’s ever been. Even though the sign says otherwise. But we don’t read numbers. Lord numbers are liberal. We thank you for the funds for the Pedophile Patio at the White House. We don’t know what it is. But the liberals said it’s bad. So, it must really be good. And that’s enough for us.

Lord, we ask You to bless our crosses. Which absolve us of all wrongdoing. We wear them proudly, Father, even when we’re screaming at cashiers or crashing Grindr. Not that we’ve ever crashed Grindr. That was the liberals.

And Father, we rebuke the rumors about ladybugs we may or may not have contracted from Lindsey “Lady” Graham. We don’t have them. We’ve never had them. We don’t think. That’s the liberals’ fault too. Lord, we pray for this nation. We pray for our bathrooms. We pray for our genitals. We pray for our Orange Messiah. And we pray that you continue to forgive us instantly while holding everyone else accountable forever. In your holy, conservative, red‑hat‑approved name we pray. Amen.”

As the final “Amen” echoed across the field. Bounced off the port‑a‑potties. Ricocheting through the humidity. And startling at least three confused squirrels. I realized something profound. This wasn’t a prayer. This was a confession disguised as patriotism. A spiritual tantrum. A theological meltdown. A holy‑ghost‑free revival sponsored by conspiracy theories and lukewarm potato salad.

The red‑hat faithful walked away feeling forgiven. Justified. And spiritually moisturized. Not because they’d repented. But because they’d shouted loudly enough to drown out their own guilt. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood there blinking like we’d just witnessed a raccoon steal a wedding cake.

If delusion had a megachurch, this prayer would’ve been the keynote speaker. If hypocrisy had a hymn book, this prayer would’ve been track one. If nonsense had a national anthem, this prayer would’ve been sung at every football game.

And here’s my final word. May we all be delivered from prayers that sound like Facebook comments. May our humor stay sharp. Our queerness stay loud. And our spirits stay unbothered. And may the next local event have better food, better theology, and fewer polyester hats. Thanks for reading! And thank you for your attention to this matter. Praise Be To Allah!

  Affirmation: I stand rooted in truth, humor, and queer resilience. No amount of red‑hat chaos can shake my spirit or dim my brilliance.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled life

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

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

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

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

Coco: “So you willingly ran toward poison?” 

Me: “Yes, and we called it summer.”

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

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

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

Coco: “Which one?” 

Me: “Dorothy.” 

Tinkerbell: “Yeah, that tracks.”

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

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

UNSUPERVISED BIKE RIDES

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

THE MOSQUITO TRUCK

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

THE SNACKS

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

THE PARENTING STYLE

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

THE GAY PART

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

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

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

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

Tinkerbell: “Honestly, it explains everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tinkerbell: “Or a Lifetime contract.”

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Rotary Phones: The Original Escape Room Challenge

“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.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than the Current Administration: 10 Reckless 80s Death Traps That Still Feel Safer Than Whatever This Is

“If the 80s taught me anything, it’s that danger builds character. And apparently more trust than modern governance.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. We’re about to smoke out some truth hotter than a Mississippi July with no AC and a broken ceiling fan. I’m talking about the 1980s. The era where children were basically raised by asbestos, sugar, and unregulated chaos. And somehow all ten of these hazards still feel more reliable than anything coming out of the current administration. According to what many people online joke about when comparing political frustrations to nostalgic dangers. So, buckle up. Preferably with a seatbelt that doesn’t lock. Fray. Or snap like the ones we had in ’84.

10 Dangerous Things From the 80s I Trust More Than the Current Administration

1. Metal Playgrounds That Reached the Temperature of Satan’s Forehead

Those slides would sear the skin clean off your thighs. But at least they were consistent. Predictable. Honest. They said, “Climb me and you will suffer.” And they delivered every time.

2. Lawn Darts

The 80s handed children spears and said, “Go outside.” And you know what? Those spears had more accountability than anything happening in Washington.

3. Station Wagons With No Seatbelts in the Back

We rolled around like loose produce in a grocery sack. But somehow we survived. Meanwhile, some people online say they feel like modern political decision-making is the real crash hazard.

4. The Original Easy-Bake Oven

Powered by a literal light bulb hot enough to melt a Barbie leg. And yet? Still felt safer than certain policy rollouts.

5. Tang

A powdered beverage that tasted like citrus-flavored drywall. But it never pretended to be anything else. A level of transparency many folks online wish they saw more often.

6. Those Giant Wooden Cable Spools We Used as Furniture

Splinters? Absolutely. Structural integrity? Questionable. But they held up better than some public promises.

7. Slip ’N Slides on Concrete

We didn’t have lush lawns. We had optimism and a hose. And even that felt like a more thought-out plan than some national strategies people complain about.

8. The McDonald’s Play Place Ball Pit

A microbial swamp of mystery fluids and lost socks. But at least the danger was visible. Tangible. Honest.

9. 80s Hair-Spray Clouds

We walked through enough aerosol to punch a hole in the ozone layer. But at least Aquanet never flip-flopped on its mission. It would hold that hair like your life depends on it.

10. The Sears Catalog Weight Set

Rusty. Questionable. Missing instructions. But it still felt more stable than the vibes coming out of D.C., according to many frustrated folks.

And that’s it. Ten relics of 80s chaos that could’ve taken us out at any moment. Metal slides that branded our thighs. Lawn darts that doubled as medieval weaponry. And Slip ’N Slides that were basically chiropractic roulette. And somehow, all that reckless nostalgia still feels sturdier than the national decision-making process folks online love to fuss about. If that ain’t Southern truth wrapped in neon spandex, I don’t know what is.

Let me tell you something. If surviving the 80s taught us anything, it’s that we were forged in a lawless era where children drank from garden hoses. Rode in the back of pickup trucks doing 70 on a gravel road. And ate popsicles that tasted like freezer burn and lead paint. We were raised by chaos, negligence, and whatever was on sale at K‑Mart. And somehow we still came out sturdier than the governmental circus folks keep hollering about these days.

Here’s the truth wrapped in a biscuit. The 80s didn’t pretend to protect us. They didn’t pat us on the head and say, “We’ve got this under control.” They didn’t hand us a flaming lawn dart and call it “innovative policy.” No, ma’am. The 80s looked us dead in the eye and said, “Listen, this might kill you. Good luck.” And honestly? That level of transparency feels downright refreshing compared to the current vibes.

So yes. Give me the metal slides, asbestos ceiling tiles, the unregulated fireworks, the neon‑soaked danger, the questionable snacks, the ozone‑destroying hair spray, and the Slip ’N Slide that doubled as a chiropractic emergency. At least those threats were honest. At least those hazards didn’t smile in my face while tripping me from behind.

And if that stings, light the charcoal. Because truth always cooks hotter than the grill. Now excuse me while I go pour myself a glass of sweet tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon. And pray for the strength of an 80s kid who survived Tang, lawn darts, and Reaganomics. Because apparently we’re gonna need it. Now pass me the charcoal. I’ve got more truth to smoke out. Mic dropped so hard it cracked the linoleum. Thanks for reading! What is your opinion?

Affirmation: I move through this world with the confidence of an 80s kid who survived. My resilience is vintage. My sass is eternal. And my trust is reserved for things that actually earn it.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife