Cultural Humor

darnold1975

Mental Health Awareness Month: A Southern Survival Guide for an Unwell Nation

“My mental health is held together by therapy, hydration, and three cats who refuse to let me spiral in peace.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. It’s Mental Health Awareness Month. And the collective mental state of this country is giving ‘a church van with three bald tires and a prayer.” The nation’s mental health is hanging on by a thread, a prayer, and a prescription refill reminder.

And let’s be honest. This crisis didn’t start at the bottom. No ma’am. We’ve got a mental‑health crisis starting at the top. And it’s dripping like a busted AC unit in August. Our leadership is acting like a Facebook comment section that’s surrounded by red‑hat followers cheering like it’s a halftime show. They treat conspiracy theories like gospel. And emotional regulation as a foreign language.

Meanwhile, my cats have entered the chat. Nothing says “mental health check‑in” like three judgmental felines watching the country unravel while demanding snacks. My cats have already staged an intervention.

Piper lit the sage herself. Coco is pacing like she’s waiting on election results. And Tinkerbell is under the couch. Because she said the national energy feels “crunchy.” She sits like a therapist who’s out of network. And blinking slowly at the news like, “This is why y’all need boundaries.” She watches the red‑hat crowd on TV and immediately starts grooming herself. Because she knows you can’t let that kind of energy stick to your fur.

Coco has diagnosed the nation with “Too Much Foolishness Disorder.” Her treatment plan includes knocking pens off the table. Screaming at 3 a.m. And sitting directly on your chest until you confront your feelings. She sees the state of the country and says, “Oh, we’re all unwell? Bet.” Then she sprints down the hallway like she’s reenacting the national mood.

Piper is the emotional support animal who needs emotional support. She watches the president on TV. Tilts her head and walks away like, “I don’t know what that is. But it’s not stable.” Then she curls up in your lap. Even she knows the collective anxiety is loud.

In May, we gather as a nation to say, “Let’s take care of our minds.” And every May the nation responds, “Absolutely. Right after I argue with strangers online about things I don’t understand.” Therapists are tired. Teachers are tired. Nurses are tired. Your cats are tired. You are tired. The ancestors are tired. Even the houseplants are like, “Girl, water me and breathe.”

Down Here in the South we’re doing our best. We’re lighting candles. We’re praying. We’re drinking water. We’re trying to heal generational trauma. While also trying to find the good scissors.

The collective Southern mental state is basically, “I’m fine.” Translation is that I have cried in the laundry room twice today. And if one more person asks me what’s for dinner, I’m moving into the woods.” Piper nods. Coco screams. Tinkerbell knocks something off the counter. It’s a family effort.

What do we do? We breathe. We hydrate. We take our meds. We go to therapy. We stop arguing with people who think facts are optional. We light the charcoal and let the sage smoke carry away the foolishness. And we listen to the cats. They’ve been trying to tell us, “Rest is resistance. Snacks are medicine. Boundaries are holy.”If we’re going to survive this era with its chaos, noise, and its red‑hat circus energy, we’re going to need hydration, humor, therapy, and at least one cat supervising our coping mechanisms. This country needs therapy, hydration, and a nap that lasts until at least 2028.

Piper has officially closed her laptop and declared she’s unavailable for further foolishness. And has already clocked out and put her paw over the “Do Not Disturb” sign. Coco is stress eating treats like she’s watching a season finale. And she is filing paperwork with HR titled “The Nation Is Acting Up Again.” Tinkerbell has curled up on my chest because she said, “the nation’s anxiety is too loud and she’s clocking out.” And has declared the vibes unconstitutional and gone to bed. 

If the world insists on acting unwell, then we’ll heal anyway. Loudly, joyfully, and with three cats as our emotional support security detail. Bless your boundaries, your brain cells, and your blood pressure. Now go forth and protect your peace like it’s the last biscuit at Sunday dinner. Thanks for reading! Get your ass in therapy.

Affirmation: I honor my mind, protect my peace, and set boundaries so firm even Coco won’t cross them.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

420 Eve: The Annual Southern Summoning of Uncle Snoop and His Blessed Goodies 

“If 4/20 is the High Holy Day, then my living room is the cathedral and the munchies are communion.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Tonight, we prepare the house like the ancestors intended. Not for angels. Not for Santa. Not for judgmental Southern aunties who think essential oils are witchcraft. It’s for Uncle Snoop. The Patron Saint of Peaceful Vibes and Premium Herb. He’s the bringer of gifts. Guardian of grinders. Distributor of munchies. And benevolent overseer of all things chill.

In this household, 4/20 Eve is not just a date. It’s a holy observance. A spiritual checkpoint. A moment when the veil between the earthly realm and the land of Good Weed grows thin. We cleanse the air. We bless the living room. We light the charcoal like we’re opening a portal to a calmer dimension. We sprinkle the sage like we’re sweeping out every last bit of Southern guilt, generational trauma, and whatever nonsense the neighbors prayed over us last Sunday. And the cats? Oh, they’re already in formation.

It’s the holiday. It’s the Easter, Christmas, Ramadan, and Homecoming of the cannabis community all rolled into one beautifully aromatic cloud. The day when stoners worldwide rise up, slowly, gently, after finding their glasses. And celebrate the sacred plant with the reverence of monks. And the snack budget of unsupervised teenagers. It’s the one day a year when the grinders shine a little brighter. The snacks taste a little better. The vibes hit a little smoother. And even the cats act like they understand the spiritual significance. 4/20 is the Holy Day of the Herb. The Sabbath of Sativa. The Pentecost of Pineapple Express. The Passover of “Pass that over here.” And if Hallmark had any sense, they’d be selling cards.

Down here in the Deep South, 4/20 Eve exists in this delicious cultural tension. It’s where half the neighborhood is prepping casseroles for Wednesday night church. And the other half is out on the porch arranging grinders and nugs like they’re setting up a devotional altar to Saint Sativa. Because while conservative Christians love to act scandalized enough to need a fainting couch, they will absolutely swallow three prescription pills, a CBD gummy shaped like a dove, and a Tylenol PM before bed and call it “the Lord’s medicine.”

These are the same folks who will declare marijuana “a gateway to sin” while fanning themselves like they just heard a rumor about the pastor’s nephew. And squinting at you with that judgmental Sunday‑school side‑eye. And whisper‑praying loud enough for the whole fellowship hall to hear. And don’t get me started on Southern traditions they cling to like a monogrammed life preserver. The “We don’t do that in this house.” Meanwhile Uncle Ronnie has been high since the Reagan administration. The “We believe in good Christian values.” Meanwhile half the congregation is outside after service smoking cigarettes so strong they could sandblast the steeple. And the “Marijuana is a drug.” Meanwhile they’re sipping communion wine like it’s bottomless brunch at the Cracker Barrel.

Here we are laying out the grinders, papers, and whispering our intentions to the night air like we’re calling on those Patron Saint of Peaceful Vibes. And to have a day of peace, snacks, reflection, and communal joy. A day where nobody judges you for being exactly who you are. Because if Santa can have cookies, Snoop can have grinders.

Every culture has its traditions. Some folks hang stockings. Some leave carrots for reindeer. Some light candles. Some bake pies. Some pretend their in-laws aren’t judging their life choices from the couch.

In this Mississippi rooted, cat-ruled, chaos-blessed sanctuary, we observe 4/20 Eve by performing the ancient ritual of Leaving Snoop on the Stoop. We don’t wait for Snoop Dogg. We prepare for him.

Step One: Sweep the Stoop Like You Expect Company

Not regular company. Legendary company. You can’t have Snoop Dogg pulling up to your porch and stepping on last week’s leaves, a rogue Amazon box, and whatever emotional debris the wind blew in from your neighbor’s divorce. No ma’am. You sweep that stoop like you’re about to host Beyoncé, Oprah, and the ghost of Bob Marley for brunch.

Step Two: Lay Out the Offerings

This is where the ritual gets serious. You place them gently. Reverently. Like you’re arranging communion wafers but for the spiritually elevated.

  • A clean grinder (because Snoop deserves fresh teeth on his herbs).
  • A rolling tray (preferably one that doesn’t still have glitter from that one craft project you swore you’d finish).
  • A nug or two of your finest stash (don’t be stingy generosity is how blessings multiply).
  • A lighter that actually works (don’t embarrass the household).

Arrange it all neatly, like a charcuterie board for the chronically chill.

Step Three: Whisper Your Intentions Into the Night Air

This is the part where the cats gather around you like you’re summoning something. Piper sits there judging your posture. Coco is sniffing the grinder like she’s TSA. Tinkerbell is already trying to knock the lighter off the stoop because she’s chaotic neutral. You close your eyes and whisper, “Snoop, if you’re out there, bless this house with new goodies, fresh vibes, and the strength to ignore our group chats tomorrow.” The wind rustles. A neighbor coughs. A raccoon side-eyes you from the trash can. The universe has heard you.

Step Four: Go Inside and Pretend You’re Not Checking the Living Room Every 12 Minutes

The magic only works if you act casual. You can’t be peeking out the blinds like you’re waiting on a DoorDash driver who’s lost in your neighborhood cul-de-sac. No. You must trust the process. Snoop arrives when Snoop arrives.

Step Five: Wake Up on 4/20 Morning to See What the Stoop Has Blessed You With

Maybe it’s a new grinder. Maybe it’s a pre-roll. Maybe it’s just the same stuff you left out because the cats knocked everything over at 3 a.m. But the point isn’t the goodies. The point is the ritual. The community. That’s the kind of magic the South needs in this current political environment.

In this house, the cats take 4/20 Eve dead serious. They act like Uncle Snoop is their long‑lost godfather. And they’re responsible for making sure the porch looks like a spiritual retreat for the chronically relaxed. As soon as I start sweeping the stoop, they materialize like I rang a tiny, invisible bell.

Piper sits on the welcome mat like she’s the head of the Stoop Committee. And supervising with that “I’m not mad, just disappointed” face she inherited from every Southern grandmother who ever lived. Coco is pacing the porch rail like a mall cop. Sniffing every grinder, tray, and nug like she’s conducting a federal inspection. If Snoop ever did show up, Coco would absolutely frisk him for contraband he brought himself. And Tinkerbell is already trying to rearrange the offerings. She’s nudging the lighter two inches to the left. Then three inches to the right. Then knocking the rolling papers off the stoop entirely. Because “feng shui,” apparently.

Together, they’re preparing for Uncle Snoop like he’s Santa Claus, Beyoncé, and the UPS man all rolled into one. They know the legend. On 4/20 Eve, if you leave out clean grinders, fresh papers, and a little herb on the stoop, Uncle Snoop might swing by with gifts for your stash.

The cats take their roles seriously. Piper guards the doorway like she’s checking names off a VIP list. Coco patrols the perimeter for squirrels, raccoons, and Baptists. Tinkerbell keeps knocking things over until the “energy feels right.”

By the time we’re done, the stoop looks like a cross between a spiritual altar and a very relaxed yard sale. If Snoop Dogg ever did stroll up our walkway, he’d take one look at these three furry porch greeters and say, “Yeah, this house gets it.”

Inside the house, the cats take their 4/20 Eve responsibilities so seriously you’d think they were preparing for a surprise inspection from the Department of Elevated Affairs. As soon as I say, “Alright y’all, Uncle Snoop might swing by tonight.” The entire feline staff snaps into action like they’ve been training for this moment their whole lives.

Piper trots into the kitchen with the confidence of a woman who has hosted many a church potlucks. And knows exactly where the good serving bowls are kept. She sits by the pantry door staring at me like, “Open it. We need the good snacks. Uncle Snoop is not showing up to a table full of off‑brand pretzels.” I pull out the munchie food that consists of chips, cookies, gummies, the emergency stash of Honey Buns. And she supervises while I arrange them on the coffee table.

Coco is doing laps around the living room, sniffing everything like she’s TSA at the Atlanta airport. She inspects the grinders. She inspects the rolling papers. She inspects the bag of chips like she’s checking for counterfeit snacks. If Snoop Dogg walked in with a backpack full of gifts, Coco would absolutely pat him down and say, “Sir, I’m gonna need you to unzip that.”

Tinkerbell, meanwhile, is dragging random objects into the living room to “improve the vibe.” A sock. A toy mouse. A single Q‑tip. And a receipt from 2021. She keeps knocking the lighter off the table, then looking at me like, “It didn’t spark joy. I’m helping.” She also insists on sitting directly in the middle of the snack spread like she’s the centerpiece. By the time they’re done, the living room looks like a cross between a stoner’s welcome banquet, a Southern auntie’s snack table, and a crime scene where the only victim is my sense of order.

May your stash be plentiful, your lighters be loyal, your cats be merciful, and your stash be blessed by the Doggfather himself. May your snacks be abundant and your responsibilities minimal. Happy 4/20 Eve, y’all. Thanks for reading! And God Bless 420 tomorrow morning. 

Affirmation:  Today I move with the calm confidence of someone whose snacks are blessed. Whose stash is protected. And whose spirit is aligned with the sacred frequency of Uncle Snoop.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

CBD Awareness: My Cats Said I’m Legally Required to Calm Down

 “My cats said CBD won’t get me high. But it will keep me from acting like a Walmart parking lot Greek tragedy. And honestly, that feels like growth.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors lean in the doorway with their arms crossed. The moment that smoke hit the ceiling fan, my household convened an emergency session of the Feline Administration to discuss CBD Awareness Month. And the cats had notes.

Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell marched in like three county commissioners who did not read the briefing packet. But absolutely intend to argue about it. Piper arrived first. She’s was dragging a legal pad she stole from my desk. She hopped onto the coffee table. Cleared her throat and announced, “CBD Awareness Month is important because humans are stressed, chaotic, and prone to hollering at inanimate objects. We must intervene.”

Coco strutted in next. And late on purpose. She believes time is a social construct. And also because she was busy knocking something off a shelf. She plopped down. Tail flicking and said, “CBD is fine. But why do y’all keep buying the expensive treats and then acting surprised when I eat the whole bag?”

Tinkerbell arrived last with the energy of a Southern auntie who already decided the meeting was foolish. But came for the snacks. She sat like a sphinx and declared, “CBD is the plant spirit that keeps y’all from crying in the Walmart parking lot. We support it.”

The Cats’ Official CBD Purposes

According to the Feline Administration, CBD has three sacred functions.

  • Stress & anxiety relief-“Because y’all vibrate like a microwave on popcorn mode.”
  • Chaos reduction-“In theory, though, I’ve seen no evidence.”
  • Increased compliance with feline demands- Tinkerbell insists this is scientifically proven by staring at me until I give her treats.

Then they expanded the list like they were reading off a menu.

  • Calms the humans-“Because y’all vibrate like a cheap motel air conditioner.”
  • Inflammation & pain-“Your knees sound like a haunted rocking chair.”
  • Sleep support-“You need it. We need you to need it.”
  • Mood regulation-“You get dramatic,” all three say in unison.
  • General human foolishness-“Self-explanatory.”

They also want it noted that CBD helps humans stop doom scrolling. Stop overthinking texts. Stop reorganizing the pantry at 3 a.m. and stop crying at dog food commercials. It gives you the ability to forgive yourself for eating an entire sleeve of cookies. And the mystical moment when you realize you are the drama. But also the solution.

Piper hopped onto the table with a binder labeled CBD: A Non‑Psychoactive Situation. Coco dragged in a whiteboard she absolutely cannot read. Tinkerbell arrived late again, ready to deliver a TED Talk titled Calm Down, Human: The Plant Is Legal Now.

Piper began: “CBD is federally legal as long as it comes from hemp and contains less than 0.3% THC. Which means, human, you can stop whispering like you’re buying contraband behind the Piggly Wiggly.”

Coco: “It does not alter your mind. It alters your attitude. And frankly, we support that.”

Tinkerbell: “It’s non‑psychoactive. Which means you’re not getting high. You’re getting functional. You’re getting emotionally moisturized. You’re getting less likely to cry over a dropped chicken nugget.”

The Guidelines (Because Apparently I Needed Rules)

Piper, now self‑appointed Director of Human Regulation, laid out the official policies.

  • Do not give CBD to cats without a vet’s approval. “We are perfect as‑is.”
  • Humans should use CBD responsibly. “Meaning don’t take it and then try to assemble furniture.”
  • CBD is not a personality trait. Tinkerbell says this while staring directly at me.
  • If CBD helps you chill, hydrate, and mind your business, the cats approve. Especially the “mind your business” part.

Then they sat me down like I was on trial.

Piper said, “We’ve observed the pacing. The muttering. The dramatic sighing. And the emotional support snacks. Clearly, CBD awareness is overdue.”

Coco added, “And while we support your journey, we would also like to know why you get the calming treats and we get vibes.”

Tinkerbell stared at me unblinking, like she was reading my aura and finding overdue library books in it. She then hopped onto the altar (my coffee table). Placed one paw on my forehead, and proclaimed:

“May your joints be loose. Your sleep be deep. Your snacks be plentiful. And your spirit be unbothered. May CBD soften your edges but not your boundaries. And may you never, ever forget to refill the treat jar.”

The sage crackled. The ancestors nodded. And the cats declared CBD Awareness Month officially adjourned. Piper knocked over a plant. Coco demanded lunch. Tinkerbell stole my pen. The plant is innocent. The human is the problem. Thanks for reading! Keep medicating.

Affirmation: “I am calm, collected, and legally compliant. I soften my edges, not my boundaries, and I do it with the confidence of a cat who just knocked something over on purpose.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Raccoon Tallywacker Scandal That Ruined My Road Trip

“If the government starts labeling raccoon parts, it’s time to reevaluate the whole system.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Apparently we’re grilling up another round of American foolishness. And this time it’s so unhinged it made me, a woman who enjoys poking fun at the current administration as a form of cardio. dissociate so hard I briefly left my body. Consulted my ancestors. And came back needing another therapy session and a cold compress.

I mean, I’ve roasted this administration before. I’ve seasoned them like Sunday chicken. I’ve vented, ranted, cackled, and written whole blog posts powered solely by spite and sweet tea. But this latest “news report” involving a high‑ranking official, a raccoon, and the alleged removal of said raccoon’s gentlemanly region for “study,” had me blinking like a possum in a flashlight beam.

My ancestors, the whole committee, materialized around me like, “Baby, what in the backwoods biology class is happening up there in Washington?” And honestly? I didn’t have an answer. I was too busy trying to remember my name, my location, and why the government is so chronically preoccupied with anything south of a creature’s ribcage.

Listen. I was minding my business. Sipping my gas‑station Diet Coke on a family road trip through the scenic wasteland between “Are we there yet?” and “If you touch your brother one more time I’m pulling this car over,” when the internet decided to fling a headline at me so deranged it made my ancestors sit up in their graves like, “Now what in the possum‑blessed hell is this?!”

Apparently, and I say this with the full weight of Southern disbelief, a high‑ranking government official has been reported to have removed a raccoon’s gentleman’s handle and taken it home “for study.” 

And I’m sitting there in the driver’s seat. Clutching my chest like a Pentecostal auntie catching the Holy Ghost. And wondering why this administration is so chronically preoccupied with genitals. Human genitals. Animal genitals. Hypothetical genitals. Imagined genitals. Genitals in theory, practice, and lab‑grade Tupperware. Meanwhile, the rest of us are just trying to get to Buc‑ee’s before the boy’s mutiny.

So, there we are, rolling down I‑59, when my phone lights up with yet another “breaking news” alert about this alleged raccoon situation. And every time I try to read it aloud, the universe punishes me by making the boys argue louder. But I persevere. Because I am a Southern woman and therefore built for chaos.

The article claims, with the confidence of a man who’s never been told no. This unnamed official allegedly removed the raccoon’s pork sword and tucked it into a cooler like it was leftover potato salad. Then, apparently, he took the raccoon’s ding‑dang doodle home “for research,” which is the kind of phrase that should automatically trigger a wellness check.

I’m sorry, but what kind of research? Peer‑reviewed? Government‑funded? DIY backyard biology? A PowerPoint titled “Raccoon Rods: A Retrospective”? And why, why, why, is this administration so obsessed with woodland critter anatomy? We’ve got potholes big enough to swallow a Kia Soul. But somebody’s out here collecting raccoon tallywackers like Pokémon.

At one point, my youngest son, who has been silently judging the entire situation from the backseat, leans forward and says, “Momma, I don’t know what’s going on in Washington. But if they’re cutting off raccoon toololly on purpose, that’s a sign the Lord is coming back soon.” I agreed. And then I look in my rearview mirror, and both boys are Googling “raccoon privates” on my hotspot. Which means I’m going to be on an FBI watchlist by sundown.

And the article just keeps escalating. Apparently the raccoon’s love baton was placed in a labeled baggie. A LABELED. BAGGIE. Sir, if you have a filing system for raccoon reproductive memorabilia, I need you to step away from public office and into therapy.

When we finally got home, I sat my cats down for a family meeting. Here is the transcript because trauma shared is trauma halved.

Me: “Alright, children. Gather round. Mama has something to tell you. And I need everyone emotionally regulated before I begin.”

Piper: “If this is about the vacuum cleaner again, I already told you I thought it was attacking us first.”

Me: “No, baby. This is worse. There’s been another situation in our government. A raccoon‑related situation. A gentleman‑region situation.”

Coco: “Momma, did somebody steal that raccoon’s downstairs department?”

Me: “Allegedly. And then allegedly took it home. For ‘study.’”

Tinkerbell: “I have lived through many things. Worms. Diarrhea. The betrayal of canned food that promised gravy but delivered lies. But this. This is new.”

Piper: “Hold on. Hold on. A human took a raccoon’s personal peener portfolio and brought it home like a souvenir from Bass Pro Shop?”

Me: “That’s what the article said.”

Coco: “Momma, I’m gonna be real with you. That sounds like the plot of a horror movie where the villain wears cargo shorts.”

Tinkerbell: “My ancestors are whispering. They say, ‘Child, this is why we stayed in the sunbeam and minded our business.’”

Me: “Mine too, baby. Mine too. When I read it, I dissociated so hard I floated above the car like a helium balloon tied to generational trauma.”

Piper: “Okay but why? Why would anyone do that. Why would anyone look at a raccoon and think, ‘You know what I need? That.’”

Me: “Apparently for research.”

Coco: “Research into what? Raccoon romance? Forest fertility? The aerodynamic properties of woodland dignity?”

Tinkerbell: “Perhaps they were trying to understand the mysteries of nature. Or perhaps they were simply unwell.”

Piper: “Momma, if a human ever comes near ME with a cooler and a label maker, I’m calling 911 myself.”

Me: “Same, baby.”

Coco: “I shall meditate on this. But first, I require a treat. Trauma makes me hungry.” 

Tinkerbell: “I’m just saying. If the government is out here collecting raccoon accessories, we need to start locking the doors earlier.”

Me: “Honestly? Same.”

Piper: “Momma, I need to call the therapist again.”

Me: “Baby, you just talked to her last week.”

Piper: “Well, I need another session. A deep one. EMDR.Eye‑Movement‑Desensitization‑and‑Raccoon‑related trauma. I need the little finger‑wiggle thing. I need the beepy headphones. I need the full package.”

Coco: “Girl, you need a punch card at this point.”

Tinkerbell: “I support her healing journey. But also, I would like a snack.”

Me: “Children. I cannot afford for all of us to be in therapy at the same time. My insomnia already has insomnia. My anxiety has a side hustle. My nervous system is running Windows 95.”

Piper: “Well maybe if the government stopped doing raccoon science projects, we could all sleep.”

Coco: “Facts.”

Tinkerbell: “I shall add this to my journal.”

By the time we reached the state line, I had accepted four things.

  1. This country is spiritually unwell.
  2. Rabies could potentially be spread in more than one way.
  3. No one in power should be allowed near a raccoon unsupervised.
  4. If one more news alert mentions a woodland critter’s “equipment,” I’m moving to a swamp and starting over.

I mean it. I’ll become a barefoot bayou oracle. I’ll read fortunes in crawfish shells. I’ll speak only in riddles and weather predictions. I’ll never again hear the phrase “raccoon meat whistle” and that will be a blessing unto my soul.

But until that day comes, I will simply say this. If your administration is spending more time on critter crotches than on infrastructure, healthcare, or literally anything else, maybe just maybe, it’s time to log off. Step outside. And touch some grass that does not belong to a raccoon missing his twig‑and‑berries. Amen and pass the cornbread. Thanks for reading! Keep laughing through this administrative pain. America, please log off. What do you think about this story involving raccoon peener collecting?

Affirmation: I release all chaos that is not mine. Including but not limited to raccoon anatomy, government foolishness, and family‑road‑trip nonsense. I remain grounded. Hilarious. And unbothered.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than This Administration: Like That One Edible That Had Me Speaking to Furniture

“When the world feels wobbly, I let the sage smoke rise. The blunt burn slow. And the ancestors remind me that clarity don’t come from chaos. It comes from choosing yourself on purpose.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s filing a complaint with HR on my behalf. Lord, every time I look at the folks allegedly “in charge,” my spirit does that little Windows‑98 error noise. You know the one bloop. It’s the sound of a system that is absolutely not okay.

So gather ‘round. I have rolled up. Prayed up. Saged the corners. Bribed my ancestors with a honey bun. And I am finally ready to discuss the one topic that keeps my spirit doing the Electric Slide in confusion. Things I trust more than whatever leadership situation we’re all pretending ain’t on fire. And listen. If you hear a lighter flick in the background, mind your business. That’s just me preparing my emotional support indica before I say something that gets me banned from the family group chat again.

I did what any responsible Southern stoner‑sage‑wielding citizen would do. I bribed them with a honey bun all while saying, “Y’all help me make a list of things I trust more than this whole leadership situation.” And the list came out longer than a CVS receipt.

1. A Pre‑Rolled Joint From a Gas Station in Rural Mississippi

At least that joint is honest about what it is. It’s questionable. Crunchy. And probably packed by somebody named Scooter who listens to Creed unironically. Leadership? They’ll smile in your face while handing you a bag of oregano and calling it “premium.”

2. My Lighter With Only One Flick Left

You know that lighter. The one that’s been through the wash twice. Has teeth marks on the cap. And only works if you whisper sweet nothings to it. Yep, I trust that lighter more than any decision made in a conference room with fluorescent lighting and no snacks.

 3. A Stranger’s Edible Math

“Yeah girl, it’s only 10mg.” Lies. It’s 400mg and a prayer. But even then? I trust that mystery brownie more than I trust any group of people who say “We’ve got everything under control.” While the metaphorical kitchen is actively on fire.

4. My Cat’s Judgment

My cat once tried to fight a ceiling fan. My cat also once tried to eat a ghost. My cat has never paid a bill. Filed a form. Or successfully minded her business. And yet? I trust her decision‑making more than I trust any committee that uses the phrase “thoughts and prayers” as a policy plan.

5. A Seed I Found in the Bottom of a Random Bag

Will it grow? Will it be mids? Will it turn into a sentient plant that judges me for eating Hot Cheetos at 2 a.m.? Who knows! But at least that seed has potential. Leadership? They still trying to figure out how to plug in the charger.

6. The Edible I Swore I’d Never Eat Again

You know the one. The one that had you talking to your ancestors, your ex, and a lamp you thought was Beyoncé. And yet I still trust that edible more than I trust any “official plan” that starts with “We’re looking into it.”

7. A Blunt Rolled by Somebody Who Says “I Don’t Really Smoke Like That”

It’s gonna canoe. It’s gonna fall apart. It’s gonna look like a sad, lopsided burrito. But at least it’s not pretending to be competent.

8. The Weather App in Mississippi

It’ll tell you it’s sunny while a tornado is literally knocking on your door like, “Y’all got a minute?” And STILL. I trust that app more than I trust any leadership that can’t decide if they’re helping, hurting, or just vibing in chaos.

At the end of the day, cannabis has never lied to me. It has never overpromised. It has never told me to “stay calm” while doing the exact opposite behind my back. Cannabis shows up. Does what it says it’s gonna do. And lets me process the world with a little more clarity, humor, and mercy. If leadership wants that kind of trust? They better start acting more like a well‑cured eighth. And less like a broken vape pen at a music festival.

And that’s where we’re at people. The honesty of a strain label that actually matches the effects. And the reliability of a lighter that doesn’t ghost you on the first flick. I’ll be over here placing my trust in my cat’s chaotic spiritual discernment. And that one edible that had me speaking fluent ancestor for six hours straight. At least they don’t pretend to have a plan. And that’s on Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Trinity of THC. Blunt lit. Sage still smoking. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin’ and resisting.

Affirmation: “I trust my intuition, my boundaries, and my peace. I move through this world grounded, protected, and lit from within like good herb on a good day.”

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

He Is Risen. And So Is My Blood Pressure Watching Christians Misquote Scripture Again

“If Jesus didn’t need help rising from the dead, He definitely doesn’t need help judging His children.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Let the ancestors lean in. And the nonsense scatter like roaches when the kitchen light flips on. I’m clearing the air. Clearing my spirit. And clearing out anybody who came in here with judgmental energy, weaponized scripture, or a Facebook theology degree. Today we’re telling the truth with love, humor, and just enough Southern heat to make the devil fan himself.

Every year, Easter rolls around and suddenly half the conservative Christians in the South start acting like they’ve been personally hired by Jesus HR to conduct performance reviews on the entire population. They show up to church in pastel outfits so loud they could blind a deacon armed with judgment, casserole, and a Bible verse they skimmed once during Vacation Bible School in 1994.

Meanwhile, Jesus is over here like, “I rose from the dead to bring hope and liberation. Not to watch y’all turn my message into a neighborhood watch program for people who don’t look, love, or live like you.” But bless their hearts. They really believe Easter is about policing everyone else’s salvation. Like Jesus outsourced His job to a committee of pearl‑clutchers with Wi‑Fi.

Easter is supposed to be the celebration of renewal, liberation, and radical compassion. He was a man who literally washed feet. Fed strangers. And hung out with the outcasts. And provided a message of hope for the poor, the hungry, the immigrant, the traumatized, the eccentric, the ethnically diverse, and the folks society shoved to the margins.

Jesus was the original “bring everybody to the table” host. He didn’t ask for dress codes, doctrinal purity, or a background check. He said, “Come as you are.” And meant it. Not “Come as you are, unless Brenda doesn’t approve of your haircut.”

Somewhere along the way, though, a whole crowd of folks decided Jesus needed personal judges. A volunteer morality police. A neighborhood watch for rainbow flags. A holiness HOA. A spiritual TSA checkpoint. And they signed up like it was a Black Friday sale.

They twist His words like balloon animals. Weaponize scripture like it’s a Nerf gun. And act like Jesus is running a multi‑level marketing scheme where the top sellers get a crown and a parking spot in heaven. They weaponize His teachings against LGBTQIA+ folks, immigrants, people of color, the poor, or anyone who doesn’t fit their “approved” mold.

And then they have the audacity, the sheer sanctified audacity, to say they’re doing it “in Jesus’ name.” Jesus didn’t ask for helpers. He didn’t post a job listing for “Assistant Judge. An unpaid internship where you must hate fun.” If anything, he said the opposite such as, “Sit down. Be humble. Love people. And stop acting like you’re the CEO of Heaven’s HR department.”

Let’s talk about the rainbow for a second. Conservative Christians love to act like the rainbow was stolen, borrowed, or misused by queer folks. Jesus made the rainbow. The gays just accessorized it better. And queer folks are honoring the original design with more creativity, joy, and community than the people who claim ownership of it. If Jesus didn’t want the rainbow to be a symbol of diversity, unity, and hope, he wouldn’t have made it look like the world’s happiest flag.

Jesus was pro‑poor, pro‑immigrant, pro‑outcast, pro‑community, pro‑healing, pro‑inclusion, and pro‑“stop being hateful and go feed somebody.” He was the original DEI ( Diversity, Equity, Inclusion) department. Long before corporate America slapped it on a PowerPoint slide. He didn’t need a committee. He didn’t need a board vote. He didn’t need a church newsletter. He just did the work.

Christians love to toss around the phrase “hate the sin, love the sinner” like it fell straight out of Jesus’ mouth and onto a Hobby Lobby wall sign. But it did not. That line is nowhere in the Bible. Not in Genesis. Not in Psalms. Not in Leviticus. And not even hidden in the fine print of Revelation. The idea is loosely connected to Christian teachings. Sure. The actual phrase traces back to St. Augustine of Hippo in 424 AD. And it didn’t get its modern glow‑up until Mahatma Gandhi repeated a version of it centuries later. So, if folks want to use it, fine. But let’s stop pretending it’s scripture when it’s clearly not. As one source puts it, the exact phrase simply isn’t in the Bible (Catholic.com, 2026). In other words, quit assigning Jesus quotes he never said. Especially when they’re being used as a permission slip for judgment.

This Easter, let’s remember what actually happened. A brown, Middle‑Eastern, homeless, anti‑authoritarian healer rose from the dead to liberate humanity. Not to give conservative Christians a seasonal excuse to cosplay as Heaven’s security guards. Easter is about resurrection. Not regulation. Liberation. Not legislation. Compassion. Not condemnation.

If Jesus wanted personal judges, he would’ve hired them. Instead, he told everybody to love their neighbor and mind their business. Let’s celebrate Easter the way Jesus intended. With open arms, hearts, tables, and absolutely no volunteer applications for Assistant Judge of the Universe. He’s got that job covered. And the rainbow says the gays are doing just fine. Thanks for reading! Stay spiritually focus instead of judgmental.

Affirmation: I walk in the kind of love, compassion, and radical inclusion Jesus actually taught. Not the edited, fear‑based version some folks try to pass off as scripture.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

You Can’t Pray the Gay Away, But You Sure Can Expose the Hypocrisy: A Southern Queer Survival Guide

“If your faith requires someone else to suffer, it’s not holy. It’s just dressed‑up cruelty.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Apparently the courts woke up. Stretched. Sipped their Folgers and said, “Hmm. What if we brought back psychological torture today?” And the conservative Christians said, “YAY! Revival!” Meanwhile, every queer person in the South is standing on their porch like, “Lord, give me strength, patience, and a Xanax the size of a biscuit.”

Down here in Mississippi, we know hypocrisy like we know humidity. It clings. It suffocates. It ruins your hair and your spirit at the same time. And nothing brings out the hypocrisy quite like a ruling that says, “Sure, go ahead and traumatize queer people in the name of Jesus. He won’t mind.” These folks will tell you with a straight face that they’re doing this out of “love.” If that’s love, then I’m a straight man named Bubba who drives a lifted truck and says “bro” every six seconds.

Let’s be honest. This ruling isn’t about saving souls. It’s about controlling bodies. It’s about punishing difference. It’s about making queer people small enough to fit inside their narrow theology and even narrower worldview. And the wildest part? These are the same people who can’t keep their own households together. The same people who preach “traditional marriage” while living like a deleted storyline from a messy reality show. The same people who scream “protect the children!” While ignoring the actual dangers children face like abuse, exploitation, and the youth pastor who keeps volunteering for overnight trips.

But sure. Let’s focus on the gays. Because we’re clearly the problem. Not the pastors who keep getting “relocated.” Not the lawmakers who can’t keep their pants zipped. Not the “family values” influencers who spend more time in hotel rooms than in prayer.

Let me break it down in terms even a conservative uncle can understand. You cannot convert someone out of being gay. You cannot shame someone out of being gay. You cannot therapy someone out of being gay. You cannot “deliverance session” someone out of being gay. Unless the only thing you’re delivering is trauma.

If sexuality were a choice, don’t you think I would’ve chosen something easier? Something with less paperwork? Something that didn’t require me to explain myself at every family gathering like I’m giving a TED Talk in a Cracker Barrel? But no. God made me like this. Curved, colorful, and incapable of pretending otherwise.

You could dangle 45 sets of dangly bits in front of me like a clearance sale at Spencer’s Gifts and I still wouldn’t be straight. But put me in front of some boobs and a cooter cat and suddenly I’m glowing like a porch light in July. That’s not a choice. That’s not a phase. That’s not a “lifestyle.” That’s divine architecture.

If you want to stay in the closet because it feels safer, I get it. But don’t pretend it’s holiness. Don’t pretend it’s righteousness. Don’t pretend it’s “God’s plan.” It’s fear. And fear is the currency of conservative Christianity. I sprinted out of the closet like it was on fire. And I’ve been free ever since. Even with my own family members who weaponize scripture like it’s a Nerf gun filled with shame. I send that mess right back to sender with a smile and a boundary. Chosen family is where the love lives. Chosen family is where the truth lives. Chosen family is where the rainbow was always meant to shine.

Theo rainbow is divine reassurance. It’s God saying, “Relax. I made y’all fabulous on purpose.” No court ruling can change that. No pastor can change that. No conversion therapist with a clipboard and a superiority complex can change that. We are here. We are queer. We are not going anywhere. And we are not apologizing for existing.

So let the smoke rise like a prayer the evangelicals forgot to proofread. Stand tall in your queerness like a magnolia tree that refuses to bow to the storm. Because here’s the truth they don’t want to face. Every time they try to erase us. We multiply. Every time they try to shame us. We shine harder. Every time they try to legislate us out of existence. We become louder, brighter, and more unbothered than ever.

Their hypocrisy is loud. But our joy is louder. Their cruelty is sharp. But our resilience is sharper. Their fear is deep. But our love is deeper. And at the end of the day, when the court rulings fade. When the sermons lose their sting. When the shame campaigns collapse under their own weight. We will still be here laughing. Loving. Living. Thriving. Dancing in the rainbow God hung in the sky as a reminder that storms don’t last forever.

So let them clutch their pearls. Let them scream about “family values.” Let them pretend their closets don’t have motion‑activated lights. We know the truth. You damn sure cannot stop the rainbow from rising. Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Hypocrisy exposed. Amen and pass the sweet tea. Thanks for reading! And Happy Pride year-round. What are your thoughts on this type of ruling?

Affirmation: “My identity is divine. My joy is sacred. And no court, church, or closet can dim the rainbow God put in my soul.”

***Don’t forget to watch the video!!!

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Part Three: The Fae Sends Backup and Piper Immediately Panics

“Some households wake up to sunshine. Mine wakes up to magical litigation and emotional support glitter.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. There are mornings when the universe whispers, “Sweet girl, stay in bed.”  And then there are mornings I wake up and whisper my classic prayer. “Lord, grant me the strength to survive whatever nonsense these animals have manifested overnight.” And the universe, being the petty little comedian it is, always replies, “Surprise! I hope you like chaos. buckle up!”

So, there I was at 7 a.m. Barely conscious. Clutching my coffee like a life insurance policy. And my hallway suddenly erupted in a burst of green glitter so aggressively it felt personal. Not whimsical. Not magical. Aggressive. Like a St. Patrick’s Day gender reveal hosted by people who should not legally be allowed near confetti. The cats were suspiciously quiet. And in this home, is the spiritual equivalent of hearing a toddler say, “Don’t come in here.”

And then, POOF! A burst of green glitter detonated in the hallway. My life is a sitcom written by feral raccoons. The leprechauns stepped out looking like they’d already read the Yelp reviews for my household. And they arrived very disappointed. All of them wearing the exact same expression that Southern church ladies reserve for when someone shows up to Easter service in denim.

Tinkerbell froze mid‑groom like a scandalized Southern aunt who just heard someone say “moist” in church. Coco dropped her clipboard. Piper screamed the scream of a creature who has never once made a good decision. And that’s when I knew: My day had clocked in early and was already demanding hazard pay.

Piper: “They brought reinforcements! They know about the ankle incident!”

Coco: “Girl, you assaulted a magical diplomat. Of course they know.”

Tinkerbell: “Everyone stay calm. And Piper, for the love of all things holy, do NOT bite anyone.”

Piper was already in a crouch. The lead leprechaun stepped forward with his hands on his hips, looking like he was about to file a complaint with HR.

Lead Leprechaun: “We’re here for the coin.”

Coco: “Absolutely not. That’s our retirement plan.”

Tinkerbell: “We negotiated in good faith.”

Lead Leprechaun: “Ye negotiated NOTHING. Ye terrorized our cousin.”

Piper: “He started it by existing.”

Tinkerbell: “Piper, please stop talking.”

The second leprechaun pulled out a scroll. A literal scroll. He unrolled it dramatically.

Second Leprechaun: “By order of the High Council of the Fae, we demand the return of the gold coin and a formal apology.”

Coco: “We can give you one of those.”

Piper: “I will never apologize.”

Tinkerbell: “We’ll work on her.”

Tinkerbell stepped forward with her “I’m about to embarrass us all but I’m doing my best” energy.

Tinkerbell: “What if we return the coin but keep one of you as our butler”

All three leprechauns gasped.

Lead Leprechaun: “We are NOT for hire!”

Coco: “Do you have thumbs though.”

Second Leprechaun: “Yes, but…”

Coco: “Then you’re qualified.”

Piper, who had been vibrating with suppressed chaos, suddenly launched herself into the air like a furry missile. She didn’t attack the leprechauns. She attacked the scroll. She shredded it like it owed her money.

Lead Leprechaun: “That was a legal document!”

Piper: “It was crinkly and I have needs.”

Tinkerbell: “I’m so sorry. She’s spirited.”

Coco: “She’s unhinged.”

Piper: “I am the wind.”

The leprechauns huddled together, whispering urgently. Then the lead one turned back to the cats.

Lead Leprechaun: “Fine. Keep the coin. Keep yer chaos. Keep yer… creature.”

Piper hissed proudly

Lead Leprechaun: “But we are NEVER coming back here again.”

Tinkerbell: “That’s fair.”

Coco: “Reasonable.”

Piper: “Cowards! I saved us!”

Tinkerbell: “You caused this.”

Coco: “You’re grounded.”

Piper: “I regret nothing.” 

And honestly she doesn’t. With a final puff of glitter, the leprechauns vanished like they’d just escaped a toxic work environment. The house fell silent. The kind of quiet that says, “We will not be discussing this again.”  Tinkerbell sighed the sigh of a woman who has raised too many children who don’t listen. Coco picked up her clipboard and documented the incident like she was preparing for a congressional hearing wrote, “Note: Do not antagonize magical beings.” Piper strutted around with the swagger of someone who absolutely caused an international incident and would do it again before lunch like she’d won a war. And me? I just stood there, wondering how I became the legal guardian of three furry war criminals.

So, if you ever think your morning is chaotic, remember. Somewhere in Mississippi, a lesbian mother of three cats is sweeping up leprechaun glitter while grounding a creature who cannot legally vote but CAN shred a diplomatic document in under three seconds. There is one more part to this fiasco with leprechauns and cats. Stay tuned it will be here soon. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: I navigate chaos with grace, humor, and the unshakable confidence of a creature who absolutely did not start the fight but will finish it.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Part Two: The Leprechaun Who Regretted Knocking on This Door

“Coco tried to negotiate. Piper tried to bite him. And Tinkerbell tried to pretend she didn’t know us.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light a candle. Grab a helmet. Alert the neighbors. And that’s when I knew this wasn’t just Part Two. This was divine punishment for every time I said, “My cats can’t possibly get any weirder.” Part Two begins with a sound no human should ever hear before coffee.

I was in the kitchen minding my business. And trying to decide whether coffee counts as a meal. When I heard a scream. Not a cat scream. Not a human scream. A scream that sounded like a kazoo having a panic attack.

I walked in and found a real leprechaun standing on my coffee table. He was looking like he’d been kidnapped by fate. And dropped directly into a house he did NOT have the emotional bandwidth for. My cats froze like they’d just seen a ghost, a rotisserie chicken, and the IRS all at once. The leprechaun adjusted his little green coat and glared at them.

Tinkerbell: “Oh Lord, he’s real.” 

Coco: “We are so getting sued.” 

Piper: “I call dibs on his ankles.”

Leprechaun: “Which one of ye hooligans set a trap made of catnip, cereal, and a shoelace”

Coco: “That would be Piper.”

Piper: “It was a strategic ankle‑biting device.”

Tinkerbell: “It was a cry for help.”

The leprechaun rubbed his temples like he suddenly understood why humans drink. Tinkerbell stepped forward with the confidence of a Southern grandmother about to negotiate a discount at Hobby Lobby.

Tinkerbell: “Sir, we’d like to offer you employment.”

Leprechaun: “Employment. As what.”

Coco: “Our butler.”

Piper: “Treat butler.”

Leprechaun: “I beg yer pardon.”

Tinkerbell: “You have thumbs. We don’t. It’s simple economics.”

The leprechaun stared at them like he was reconsidering the entire concept of magic. He made a run for it. Unfortunately for him, Piper also made a run for it. And she runs like a Roomba possessed by the Holy Spirit. She launched herself off the couch. Skidded across the hardwood. And slammed into the leprechaun like a furry bowling ball.

Leprechaun: “Lord above, get this creature off me!”

Piper: “I got him! I got the gold man!”

Tinkerbell: “Piper, release the hostage.”

Piper: “No. he’s mine!”

Coco: “Girl, you can’t just claim people like coupons.”

Once the leprechaun was upright again (and Piper was placed in a time‑out behind a baby gate), Tinkerbell attempted diplomacy.

Tinkerbell: “We don’t want to harm you. We simply want your gold.”

Leprechaun: “Absolutely not.”

Coco: “Okay, then we want your thumbs.”

Leprechaun: “Absolutely not.”

Piper: from behind the gate “I want his ankles.”

Tinkerbell: “Ignore her. She’s… spirited.”

After twenty minutes of arguing, bribery attempts, and Piper trying to chew through the baby gate like a raccoon, the leprechaun finally sighed.

Leprechaun: “Fine. I’ll give ye one coin if ye promise to never summon me again.”

Coco: “Deal.”

Tinkerbell: “Agreed.”

Piper: “Can I bite it to make sure it’s real?”

Leprechaun: “NO.”

He tossed the coin onto the rug, muttered something in Gaelic that I’m pretty sure was a curse, and vanished in a puff of glitter. Piper immediately tried to eat the coin. So now my cats have one magical gold coin, no butler, no thumbs, and  a restraining order from the leprechaun realm. Disasters. Tinkerbell is drafting an apology letter to Ireland. Coco is Googling “how to invest one coin in crypto” Piper is behind a baby gate screaming, “I won the war!” And me? I’m just trying to drink my coffee in peace while living with three furry agents of chaos who almost started an international incident with the Fae.

And that, dear readers, is how my cats managed to terrify a magical creature, negotiate absolutely nothing, and still walk away with a gold coin that Piper immediately tried to swallow like it was communion. The leprechaun vanished in a puff of glitter, probably filing a complaint with the. The leprechaun vanished in a puff of glitter, probably filing a complaint with whatever Fae Department of Magical handles “feline‑related incidents.” is researching “how to retire on one coin.” Piper is behind a baby gate screaming, “I am the chosen one!” And me I’m just trying to figure out how to explain this to my therapist without getting put on a watchlist.

Don’t you worry. Part Three is on the way and trust me. The glitter storm hasn’t even peaked yet. Backup is on the way, and Piper is about to discover what consequences feel like. Stay tuned. Thanks for reading! Keep smiling.

Affirmation: I handle unexpected visitors with grace, unlike my cats who handle them with teeth.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Things I Trust More Than This Administration

“I trust bad vibes, random coincidences, and my toaster more than this administration.”

-Unknown

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s blog is not just a list. It’s a public service announcement. A spiritual awakening. And a petty masterpiece crafted by a woman who has seen too much, heard too much, and tripped in public too many times to stay silent.

I woke up this morning. Turned on the news. And immediately felt my soul pack a suitcase and whisper, “I’ll be at the Motel 6 if you need me.” Piper gasped like she was watching a telenovela. Coco clutched her imaginary pearls. Tinkerbell just sighed the sigh of a woman who has lived through 14 administrations and is spiritually moisturized enough to handle anything.

And that’s when I knew it was time. Time to document Things I Trust More Than the Current Administration. It’s a list so chaotic, so accurate, and so spiritually petty that even my ancestors leaned in like, “Go on, baby. Tell it.” So, grab your snacks, your beads, your emotional support beverage, and your sense of humor. This is about to get disrespectful in a healing way.

1. My flip‑flops.

Yes. It’s the same flip‑flops that tried to assassinate me in slow motion. The ones with the structural integrity of a soggy communion wafer. The ones that folded like a cheap lawn chair at a family reunion. Still more dependable.

Tinkerbell: “At least the flip‑flops don’t lie on television.”

2. Piper’s decision‑making skills.

This is the same creature who ate a sparkly Pride bandana. Who tried to flash her nonexistent cat boobs for beads. And who attempted to unionize against bedtime. And yet? I trust her more.

Piper: “I make bold choices. Not good ones. But bold.”

3. A gas station egg salad sandwich.

Expiration date: unknown. Smell: concerning. Texture: illegal. But at least it’s honest about the danger.

Coco: “It may kill you, but it won’t gaslight you.”

4. A toddler holding a permanent marker.

Will they draw on the wall or the dog or their own face? Yes. But at least you know chaos is coming.

5. A goose with a clipboard.

He’s honking. He’s chasing people. He’s eating paperwork. But he believes in his mission.

Piper: “That’s passion. I respect it.”

6. My own ability to walk in flip‑flops.

History says no. Physics says no. Gravity says “Absolutely No.” But I still trust myself more.

Coco: “Bold of you.”

7. The cats’ ability to behave in public.

They have caused a Mardi Gras incident. Stolen a praline. Gotten into a legal dispute with NOPD. And started a jazz band. And yet? More trustworthy.

8. A Walmart shopping cart with one broken wheel.

It squeaks. It veers left. It shakes like it’s possessed. But it’s trying its best.

9. A fortune cookie written by someone who was clearly drunk.

“Your future is… something.” Same, babe. Same.

10. Ebola

At least Ebola is upfront like, “I’m dangerous. Stay away.” No mixed messages. No confusion. Just pure, uncut honesty.

Tinkerbell: “Clarity is a love language.”

11. Jeffrey Dahmer’s dinner invitations

Not attending. Not RSVPing. Not even opening the envelope. But at least you KNOW what you’re getting into. There’s no mystery. No surprises. Just a firm, “No thank you, sir,” and a quick jog in the opposite direction.

Coco: “Predictability matters.”

12. Jim Jones’ Kool‑Aid recipe

Not drinking it. Not smelling it. Not being in the same ZIP code as it. But I trust that it will do exactly what it promises. No false advertising. No fine print. Just consequences.

Piper: “At least it’s consistent.”

13. COVID 1‑19

The actual virus. Because COVID shows up like, “Hey girl, I’m back.” And honestly? I respect the commitment to the bit. It’s the ex who keeps returning but at least texts first.

Tinkerbell: “Reliability is reliability, even when it’s terrible.”

14. A stomach virus

It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t gaslight you. It just shows up at 3 AM like, “Hope you didn’t have plans today.”

Coco: “At least it’s punctual.”

15. A fart when I have amoebic dysentery

This is the MOST untrustworthy thing on Earth. A gamble. A spiritual test. A moment where your soul leaves your body and watches from the ceiling. And yet, still more trustworthy.

Piper: “High‑risk, high‑reward.”

Tinkerbell: “Baby, that’s not a fart. That’s a prophecy.”

16. A gas station hotdog that’s been spinning since 2014

At least it hasn’t claimed to have a plan for the country.

17. My cats’ understanding of personal space

They don’t respects boundaries, much the administration. But they’re consistent about something.

18. A psychic named Debra who accepts Venmo

Makes promises you can verify immediately.

19. My phone’s autocorrect

Provides helpful suggestions, not false promises.

20. The voice in my head that says, “this is a bad idea.”

Offers accountability before the disaster.

And do you know what? None of them have access to nuclear codes.

And so, after reviewing flip‑flops with abandonment issues, geese with clipboards, and Piper’s ongoing feud with law enforcement, one truth remains. There are many things in this world more trustworthy than the current administration. And most of them should not be legally trusted at all. But here we are. Surviving. Thriving. Spiritually hydrated. Held together by snacks, sarcasm, and the emotional support of three cats who have never paid taxes but have very strong opinions.

Piper is already drafting her own State of the Union. Coco is fact‑checking it with a glass of imaginary wine. Tinkerbell is praying for all of us. As for me? I’m lighting the sage again. Because after this list, the energy in here needs a full exorcism. And remember, “If chaos is inevitable, at least make it funny.” Thanks for reading! Keep resisting.

Affirmation: “I move through this chaotic timeline with the resilience of a goose with a clipboard, and the unhinged optimism of someone who still trusts a fart during amoebic dysentery more than the people allegedly running the country.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife