Gen X

darnold1975

Why 80s Horror Movies Prepared Us for Adulthood Better Than School Did

“80s horror didn’t scare us. It trained us.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today we’re roasting the true educational system that raised us which was the 1980s horror movies. School taught us long division. How to cover a textbook with a brown paper bag. And that the overhead projector bulb would always blow out right before your turn to present. But 80s horror taught us survival. Situational awareness. And never to trust a foggy forest, a malfunctioning flashlight, or a friend named Chad who says, “Let’s split up.”

Those low‑budget masterpieces didn’t just entertain us. They prepared us for adulthood better than any guidance counselor ever did. Because nothing says “real‑world readiness” like watching a monster made of dryer lint and Elmer’s glue chase teenagers who clearly had no business being outside after dark. Let’s honor the cinematic chaos that shaped our reflexes, our instincts, and our ability to identify the dumbest person in the group within 0.3 seconds.

Low‑Budget Horror Lessons & Their Beautifully Terrible Monsters

1. The Fog Machine Budget Was 90% of the Film

Every 80s horror movie had fog thicker than Mississippi humidity in August. 

Monster: Michael Myers (Halloween series) walked slower than a church deacon but still caught everybody. 

Life lesson: If you can’t see three feet ahead, turn around. Immediately.

2. The Blood Looked Like Kool‑Aid

It was neon. It was watery. It was suspicious. 

Monster: Jason Voorhees (Friday the 13th) the man, the myth, the hockey‑masked menace. 

Life lesson: If the vibes are off at summer camp, leave.

3. The Killer Always Appeared in a Doorway They Weren’t Near

Teleportation was free in the 80s. 

Monster: Freddy Krueger (A Nightmare on Elm Street)  the crispy king of dream‑based foolishness. 

Life lesson: Get sleep, but not too much sleep.

4. The Special Effects Looked Like a Middle School Science Fair

Rubber masks, visible wires, and monsters that jiggled when they weren’t supposed to. 

Monster: The Blob was basically a giant fruit snack with an attitude problem. 

Life lesson: If it wiggles toward you, don’t touch it.

5. The Dumbest Friend Always Died First

Every. Single. Time. 

Monster: Chucky (Child’s Play) a doll that should’ve been thrown in the dumpster behind K‑Mart. 
Life lesson: Choose your circle wisely.

6. The House Was Always Haunted AND Cheap

Realtors in the 80s were bold. 

Monster: The Poltergeist clown doll was the reason we all slept with the lights on. 

Life lesson: If the house is too affordable, ask why.

7. The Creature Was Clearly a Guy in a Suit

And we loved him for it. 

Monster: Gill‑man (Creature‑feature sequels)  looked like a scuba diver who got lost. 
Life lesson: Don’t underestimate a man committed to a costume.

8. The Sequel Count Was Disrespectful

Every franchise had at least 47 sequels and a reboot nobody asked for. 

Monster: Pinhead (Hellraiser) the original “Don’t touch my stuff” villain. 

Life lesson: Some problems return because you didn’t solve them the first time.

9. The Teenagers Never Locked a Door

Not once. 

Monster: Ghostface prototype energy from every pre‑Scream slasher. 

Life lesson: Lock. Your. Doors.

10. The Final Girl Had the Strength of a Thousand Suns

She survived everything: monsters, explosions, bad perms. 

Monster: The Xenomorph Queen (Aliens) terrifying, iconic, and probably unionized. 

Life lesson: Women will save the world. Again.

11. Everyone Tripped Over Absolutely Nothing

Sidewalk? Flat. Forest floor? Flat. Living room rug? Flat. Did they fall anyway? Yes. Did they look back at the invisible obstacle like it personally betrayed them? Also yes. 

Life lesson: If you panic, gravity will snitch on you.

12. Women Never Wore Bras — Not Even Once

Running from a monster? No bra. Investigating a noise? No bra. Walking into a clearly haunted basement? Still no bra. 

Life lesson: Support was optional in the 80s. Both emotionally and structurally.

13. The Young Victims Were Always Showering or Mid‑Romance

If two teenagers so much as held hands, you could hear the horror soundtrack warming up like an orchestra tuning before a concert. 

Life lesson: If you’re vulnerable, distracted, or naked, the universe will test you.

14. The Perfectly Working Vehicle Suddenly Refused to Crank

You left it running. You left the keys in it. It was purring like a kitten. But the moment you needed it? Click. Click. Dead. Meanwhile the monster is speed‑walking toward you like he’s late for a dentist appointment. 

Life lesson: Trust issues begin with 80s car scenes.

And that, my dear Southern scholar of chaos, is why 80s horror movies prepared us for adulthood better than any standardized test ever could. School taught us how to diagram a sentence. Horror movies taught us how to diagram an escape route. School taught us the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Horror movies taught us the basement is the powerhouse of bad decisions.

We grew up on monsters made of latex, corn syrup, and pure ambition. And now we call them classics. We still watch every sequel, reboot, and “re‑imagining.” Because deep down we know those films raised us with more honesty than any textbook. Light the charcoal again, baby. The 80s taught us to survive anything. Even adulthood. Thanks for reading! Do you remember anything else about the low budget films of that era?

Affirmation: I move through life with Final Girl energy and the wisdom to never investigate a strange noise.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

I am Jane Doe

My name is Jane Doe, 

and I learned too young that silence has a pulse. 

It thumps in the throat, it bruises the air, 

it teaches you how to fold yourself into something 

small enough to survive the night.

I did not choose this name

it was handed to me the moment someone decided 

my body was theirs to trespass. 

A name for the unnamed, 

for the girls who disappear inside themselves 

because speaking feels like stepping back into the fire.

I carry memories that shake 

even when my hands look still. 

I carry nights that never end, 

questions that never had answers, 

and a childhood that was rewritten by someone else’s violence.

My name is Jane Doe, 

because the world prefers me faceless 

it’s easier that way. 

Easier to ignore the trembling, the aftermath, 

the way a soul limps long after the body looks healed.

But I am not a headline, not a case file, 

not a whisper people avoid 

because it makes them uncomfortable. 

I am a survivor with a voice that learned to rise even when it cracked.

My name is Jane Doe, 

but I am not anonymous anymore. 

I speak for the ones still gathering courage, 

for the ones who only breathe in fragments, 

for the ones who haven’t yet remembered 

that their story is still theirs.

I survived what tried to erase me. 

I survived what tried to rename me. 

And today I say my name out loud, 

not because it is simple, 

but because it is mine.

-This Puzzled Life

darnold1975

The Genitals Administration: Now With Extra Hypocrisy

“Any government that talks more about genitals than healthcare is not protecting you. It’s projecting.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Today, we are summoning every ancestor who ever clutched their pearls. Hid their good china. Or whispered, “Lord have mercy” when the preacher said something inappropriate. We are calling forth Aunt Magnolia, Uncle Rufus, Cousin Pearl-with-the-bad-attitude, and every ghost who ever lived through a scandal. But NOT the children and NOT the animals. Unless you want to work for the FBI. Because what we’re about to discuss is not fit for tender souls or creatures who rely on us for kibble. They don’t deserve this level of anatomical chaos.

Today, under the glow of Mississippi humidity and charcoal smoke, we gather to confront a national mystery so bizarre it deserves its own Netflix docuseries. Why is the current administration obsessed with genitals? Not healthcare. Not infrastructure. Not education. Not diplomacy. Nope. Just genitals. Your genitals. My genitals. Genitals they legislate, regulate, investigate, and allegedly crash Grindr with. 

Ten Examples Of The Administration’s War On Genitals 

1. Bathroom Legislation. 

Some administrations build bridges. This one builds bathroom flowcharts. They’ve spent more time deciding who pees and poops where, rather than fixing anything that actually matters. My ancestors are pacing the spirit realm whispering, “Why are grown men so invested in toilets? Why are grown men spending more time thinking about where people pee and poop than fixing anything? If you’re this invested in toilets, go work at Home Depot.

2. The Historic Tradition of Grabbing People by the Genitals

A moment that will live in infamy. A moment that should’ve ended careers. A moment that instead became a personality trait. Sir, that is not a handshake. That is a felony.

3. The Grindr Crashes Heard Across the Nation They swear they’re “traditional.” They swear they’re “family values.” Yet somehow Grindr crashes every time a cabinet meeting ends. Coincidence? That ain’t coincidence. That’s congestion. And every time a Republican Convention gathers, Grindr goes down like it’s been hit by a cyberattack. Y’all keep saying ‘family values,’ but the server logs say, ‘thirsty chaos.’

4. The War on Trans Bodies

Bathroom bans. Sports bans. Medical bans. Everything except banning their own obsession with other people’s anatomy. My ancestors are lighting sage and muttering, “Leave folks alone.” If you’re writing laws about someone else’s anatomy, you’re not protecting anything. You’re just proving you think about genitals more than your own job.

5. The Cabinet of ‘Family Values’ That Keeps Getting Credibly Accused of Everything BUT Family Values

Every week it’s a new scandal. A new accusation. A new “misunderstanding.” My ancestors are exhausted. They need PTO. Family values? The only thing y’all value is plausible deniability.”

6. The Obsession With Policing Drag Shows

Food insecurity? Healthcare? Housing? Nope. Let’s talk about genitals again. My ancestors are throwing sweet tea at the wall. Men in wigs scare you? My mee-maw wore three wigs to church every Sunday. And our founding fathers wore wigs. Grow up.

7. The ‘Protect the Children’ Rhetoric While Ignoring Actual Threats

 Men in wigs? Women in wigs? Everyone in wigs? Apparently wigs = danger. If you cared about kids, you’d fix schools. And hold the president, billionaires, and other politicians accountable for crimes against women and children. Not stalking bathrooms like a mall cop with a pelvic fixation.”

8. The Homoerotic Wrestling Events That Follow Anti-LGBTQ Speeches

They scream about anatomy while ignoring actual harm. My ancestors are filing celestial restraining orders. You can’t yell ‘traditional values’ and then host an event that looks like the opening scene of a Grindr hookup. Pick a lane.”

9. The Constant Commentary on People’s Bodies

 Sweaty men rolling around in cages. Grunting. Flexing. Followed by an afterparty that mysteriously aligns with Grindr server outages. My ancestors are fanning themselves dramatically. Why do y’all talk about anatomy like it’s a weather report? ‘Today’s forecast: scattered genitals with a chance of hypocrisy.’

10. The Attempt to Regulate Genitals Instead of Governing

Every speech. Every rally. Every interview. Somehow it circles back to genitals. My ancestors are begging for silence. Fix the roads. Fix healthcare. End the “Epstein War on Iran.” Fix literally anything. Stop trying to run a country like it’s a pelvic inspection.”

As the charcoal crackles. And the ancestors lean in like they’re watching a soap opera, let us acknowledge the truth. This administration is not governing. They’re running a full‑time genital surveillance program. They legislate genitals. They comment on genitals. They grab genitals. They crash Grindr with their own genitals. They accuse others of immoral genitals. While their own are out here doing extracurricular activities that would make a church deacon faint.

Meanwhile, the American people are standing here like, “Can y’all please stop talking about crotches and start talking about the country?” But no. The obsession continues. The hypocrisy continues. The scandals continue. And the server outages? Those continue too. Charcoal smoldering. Ancestors dismissed. I delivered every comment like a Southern Beyoncé with a sociology degree and a grudge. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: My body is not your battleground. My autonomy is not your agenda. My voice is loud. My boundaries are blessed. And my humor is lethal.

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

#ThisPuzzled Life

darnold1975

A Letter to Parents Who Forgot What Love Means

“Love is not holy if it requires your child to shrink.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Because Lord, they’ve been watching this mess unfold for generations and they are tired. I can practically hear Big Mama in the spirit realm, fanning herself with a church program and whispering, “Baby, go on and say it. They need to hear it.” So, I’m writing this letter. This holy‑ghost‑powered, Southern‑fried, and emotionally charged letter to the parents of LGBTQIA+ kids everywhere. And I’m writing it in the voice of every queer ancestor who had to survive Sunday School shame, back‑pew gossip, and family reunions where the potato salad had more acceptance than they did.

This is a letter from me, a queer adult who lived through the fire. Walked through the brimstone. And still came out smelling like sandalwood and resilience. And I’m not holding back. Sit back while I speak some truth.

Dear Parents, before you bring a child into this world biologically, adoption, or through the “God told me to foster” pipeline, you need to sit with yourself and ask one question, “Am I going to love this child more than my beliefs?” If the answer is anything other than a full‑bodied, chest‑thumping, hallelujah‑shouting yes, then you don’t need children. You need a devotional, a therapist, and maybe a long walk through the woods to talk to Jesus directly.

Let me be clear. Jesus, the actual Jesus, not the one y’all weaponize,  never bullied a child. He never told a kid they were going to hell. He never said, “Love thy neighbor unless they’re gay.” He never threw stones at queer folks. He only threw shade at hypocrites. So, if you’re out here being your child’s first bully, oppressor, heartbreak, first source of shame, you are not parenting. You are spiritually vandalizing a soul God trusted you with. And I’m here to tell you with all the ancestors nodding behind me, that is not holy. That is not righteous. That is not love.

10 Beliefs That Mean You Should Not Have Children

  1. If your religion means more to you than your child’s humanity, you should not have children. Jesus didn’t die on the cross so you could weaponize Leviticus like a spiritual flyswatter.
  2. If you plan to be your child’s first bully, you should not have children. Kids deserve parents. Not mean girls with mortgages.
  3. If you believe your grandchildren are “tainted” because their parents are gay, you should’ve never had children yourself. The family tree didn’t rot. Your mindset did.
  4. If you teach your child to hate LGBTQIA+ family members, you should not have children. Hell is not the destination here. But your behavior is the road map.
  5. If you think “unconditional love” comes with fine print, you should not have children. God doesn’t do contracts. He does covenants.
  6. If you believe queer kids are a punishment instead of a blessing, you should not have children. That’s not theology. That’s ignorance with a Bible cover.
  7. If you think “pray the gay away” is a parenting strategy, you should not have children. Prayer is for healing. Not conversion therapy cosplay.
  8. If you’d rather lose your child than lose your church friends, you should not have children.Jesus ate with outcasts. You’re worried about potluck politics.
  9. If you think shame is a teaching tool, you should not have children. Shame doesn’t save souls. It breaks them.
  10. If you believe love must be earned, you should not have children. Children are not employees. You are not their boss. Love is not a performance review.

Let me take a deep breath. Pull up a rocking chair on the porch of truth. And say this slow enough for even the folks in the back pew. This is for the ones who pretend they’re reading scripture. But are really scrolling Facebook to understand. If your love cannot stretch wide enough to hold a queer child, then your love is not love. It is fear dressed up in Sunday clothes.

And I’m going to tell you something the ancestors have been whispering for decades. Children come through you. Not for you. They are not born to validate your beliefs, your image, your reputation, or your standing in the church bulletin. Children are not your emotional support trophies. They are not your redemption arc. They are not your second chance at being the person you wish you were. They are not your spiritual PR campaign. 

They are souls that are whole, holy, and handcrafted by the same God you claim to worship. And if you cannot love them without conditions, ultimatums, threats of hellfire, “pray it away” nonsense, and shame disguised as righteousness, then you are not parenting. You are performing. You are auditioning for approval from people who wouldn’t show up for you if your house caught fire. You are sacrificing your child’s mental health on the altar of “What  will the church ladies think?” You are choosing doctrine over devotion. Fear over family. And ego over empathy.

Let me say this louder with the ancestors stomping their feet like a praise break behind me. Jesus never asked a child to shrink so a parent could feel tall. Jesus never told a child to hide so a parent could feel holy. Jesus never demanded silence from the oppressed to comfort the oppressor.

If your child comes out to you in fear, trembling, hope, desperation, and your first instinct is to shame them. Correct them. Punish them. Or “fix” them. Then you have misunderstood the entire point of parenthood.

And if your response is, “Well, I love them. But I don’t support their lifestyle,” let me lovingly, sarcastically, and spiritually inform you. Your child does not have a lifestyle. They have a life. And you are either in it, or you are not.

If you think rejecting your child is righteous. I promise you that Jesus is looking down at you like, “That’s not what I said.” If you think your child’s identity is a sin. But your cruelty isn’t. You might want to reread the red‑letter parts of the Bible. The ones where Jesus actually speaks. Because he spent his entire ministry calling out people who acted exactly like that.

If you think your child’s queerness is a burden. But your judgment isn’t. You need to sit with that. If you think your child’s truth is dangerous. But your silence isn’t. You need to sit with that. If you think your child’s love is wrong. But your rejection is holy. You need to sit with that.

And while you’re sitting, let me offer you the kind of truth that makes the ancestors nod and Jesus raise an eyebrow. Queer kids do not break families. Parents who choose fear over love do. Queer kids do not destroy homes. Parents who weaponize scripture do. Queer kids do not cause generational trauma. Parents who refuse to evolve do. And heterosexual parents create gay children. They don’t create themselves.

Queer kids do not walk away from families lightly. Parents who make home unsafe push them out. And if you lose your child because you could not love them fully, freely, and fiercely. That is not their sin. That is your consequence. If you cannot love a queer child. You are not ready to love any child. If your heart cannot expand. Your family cannot grow. If your faith cannot bend. Your relationships will break. If your compassion cannot stretch. Your legacy will shrink.

And one day you will look back and realize that the child you rejected was the one who could’ve taught you the most about love. But by then, they’ll be gone. And they’ll be loved somewhere else. Fully. Joyfully. Safely. And without conditions. Ancestors humming. Jesus nodding. And the truth standing tall. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I honor my truth, identity, and my worth. And I refuse to let anyone’s fear masquerading as faith define me.

***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

The Blood on Mississippi Soil: Why Silence Is No Longer an Option

“Silence is the oldest accomplice of violence. And Mississippi has been silent for far too long.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal, y’all. Because my ancestors are pacing the porch tonight. I can feel them in the humidity, the cicada buzz, and in the way the air gets thick right before a storm. They’re whispering. Tapping their feet. And shaking their heads the way old Southern aunties do when they’ve had enough of the foolishness. And Lord knows Mississippi has given us more than enough foolishness wrapped in Bible verses. Dipped in denial. And served with a side of “the South will rise again” delusion.

Because let’s tell the truth. The “Christian” community down here loves to shout about sin until it’s time to call out violence against Black bodies. Then suddenly everybody’s quiet. Clutching pearls. And humming hymns like silence is salvation. They’ll condemn a teenager’s skirt length before they condemn a system that keeps killing Black people. They’ll preach forgiveness while refusing accountability. They’ll talk about “God’s love” while ignoring the blood on their own soil. And I’m done pretending that’s holy.

Mississippi has always been a place where racism isn’t just a belief. It’s infrastructure. It’s policy. It’s tradition. It’s the foundation poured into the dirt generations ago. And too many folks still treat it like sacred ground.

And now, again, violence has come knocking at the doors of Black families. Again, the state government refuses to investigate. Again, accountability disappears when the killer is white. Again, we are told to “wait for the facts.” While the facts are buried under good ol’ boy politics and backroom handshakes.

A one-year-old Black baby was shot and killed by a white officer over diapers. Let me say that again. A baby died because a grown man with a badge felt threatened by diapers.

A Black teenage boy was found dead under mysterious circumstances. And instead of answers, we get a cover-up thicker than Delta mud. Evidence missing. Stories changing. Officials shrugging like a child’s life is just a paperwork inconvenience.

And now, a Black woman found hanging from a tree in 2026. And the state wants us to believe it’s anything other than what it looks like. Mississippi has a long, violent history with Black bodies and trees. We know what this is. We’ve seen it before. Our ancestors saw it before. And the silence from leadership is louder than any confession.

This isn’t coincidence. This isn’t isolated. This is a pattern, a legacy, and a sickness that Mississippi refuses to treat because too many people benefit from the infection. And let me tell you something. I’m old enough now to stand up and say it plainly. I’m old enough to fight for marginalized groups which include Black folks, brown folks, Indigenous folks, immigrants, and anyone who doesn’t fit the whitewashed mold Mississippi keeps trying to force us into. I’m old enough to say that I’m proud that I didn’t buy into the racist ideology that some of my own family members still cling to like it’s heirloom china.

I broke the cycle. I chose humanity over heritage. I chose truth over tradition. I chose justice over comfort. And if that makes me the black sheep at the family reunion, hand me the potato salad because I’ll graze in the pasture with pride. I’m proud to say I’m not like them. Not molded by their fear. Not shaped by their hate. Not carved into the same brittle statue of “tradition” they keep worshiping like it’s holy. I’m proud to say I crawled out of the same Mississippi clay. And still managed to grow in a different direction. And it was one that didn’t twist my roots around racism and call it heritage.

If rejecting their ideology means I lose my seat at the family table, then pull the chair out from under me. If refusing to swallow their silence means I’m no longer welcome in their church pews, then let the hymns echo without me. If choosing humanity over hypocrisy means I have to walk away from religion entirely, then I’ll walk away barefoot. Head high and unbothered.

Because I refuse to be loyal to a system that kills Black children and calls it “procedure.” I refuse to be loyal to a state that covers up Black death and calls it “ongoing investigation.” I refuse to be loyal to a community that sees a Black woman hanging from a tree and calls it “unfortunate.” I refuse to be loyal to people who hide behind scripture while ignoring suffering. I refuse to be loyal to any ideology that demands my silence while it destroys lives.

Mississippi may be built on racism. But I am not. Mississippi may cling to its racist past. But I do not. Mississippi may worship its own mythology. But I refuse to kneel. I am not like them. I will never be like them. And if breaking away from their beliefs is the cost of protecting my soul, integrity, and humanity, then that’s a price I’ll pay in full with no regrets.

Let them keep their “South will rise again” fantasies. I’m rising in a different direction. One they can’t touch. Can’t claim. And sure as hell can’t control. That’s my mic drop. And I won’t be picking it back up. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I honor my ancestors by refusing to repeat their pain. I stand in truth. I stand in courage. And I stand in love even when I stand alone.

***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!***

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darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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