Humor As Survival

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

Operation: Irish Extraction  The Great Leprechaun Capture Mission

“If you hear screaming, it’s either a leprechaun or me realizing my cats have a plan.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the candles. Hide the valuables. Say a prayer for the drywall. Today’s blog begins with a level of chaos I did NOT sign up for. My three cats launching a full‑scale military operation to capture a leprechaun, and I am simply a bystander in my own home. And they are treating it like a joint military operation, a church potluck, and a felony all at once. And that’s when I knew this day was going to require caffeine, prayer, and possibly legal representation. Welcome to St. Cat‑rick’s Day: Chaos Edition.

I walked into the living room this morning and found all three cats sitting in a circle like they were planning a coup. Piper had a shoelace. Coco had a clipboard she definitely stole. Tinkerbell had reading glasses on, which is concerning because she does not need reading glasses.

Tinkerbell: “Ladies, today we hunt for gold.” 

Coco: “And possibly a small magical man.” 

Piper: “Can I bite him?”

Tinkerbell: “This meeting is now in session. Our objective? Capture a leprechaun.”

Coco: “Alive. Preferably. But we’ll see how the day goes.”

Piper: “Can I eat him?”

Tinkerbell: “No. We do not eat magical creatures.”

Piper: “Then what’s the point?”

Piper jumped onto the coffee table, knocking over a candle and three of my remaining brain cells. She unrolled a crumpled piece of paper with her teeth. It was a drawing. A terrible one.

Piper’s Plan was to dig hole. Put leaf on hole. Wait. Bite ankles.

Coco: “That’s not a plan. That’s a felony.”

Piper: “It’s called strategy.”

Tinkerbell: “It’s called jail time.”

Coco strutted forward like she was presenting at a Fortune 500 shareholders meeting. She clicked a laser pointer at a diagram labeled: 

“OPERATION: IRISH EXTRACTION”

Coco’s Plan was to Lure leprechaun with Lucky Charms. Replace marshmallows with catnip. When he gets high enough to see God, we take the gold.

Tinkerbell: “Coco, that’s entrapment.”

Coco: “Correct.”

Tinkerbell cleared her throat like a professor about to ruin everyone’s day.

Tinkerbell’s Plan was to negotiate. Offer him a fair trade. If he refuses, unleash Piper.

Piper: “I bite ankles.”

Tinkerbell: “Exactly.”

After 45 minutes of scheming, Coco suddenly froze.

Coco: “Wait. How big is a leprechaun?”

Tinkerbell: “Small. Human‑shaped. Magical.”

Piper: “So, snack‑sized?”

Coco: “No, Piper. Focus. If he’s human shaped, that means he has thumbs.”

All three cats gasped.

Tinkerbell: “Thumbs… the forbidden fruit.”

Coco: “We can’t defeat a creature with thumbs. He can open doors.”

Piper: “He can open the treat bag.”

The room fell silent. This was now a national emergency.

Tinkerbell: “We don’t capture the leprechaun. We hire him.”

Coco: “As our butler.”

Piper: “Treat butler.”

Tinkerbell: “Exactly. We offer him a job in exchange for his gold and his thumbs.”

Coco: “And if he refuses…”

Piper: “I bite ankles.”

My cats are not catching a leprechaun. They are unionizing to recruit one. And honestly I’m afraid they might succeed. That, dear readers, is how I discovered my cats were running an unsanctioned military operation in my living room. I’m just over here trying to drink my coffee while Piper drafts war strategies in crayon. Coco files paperwork with an authority she absolutely does not have. And Tinkerbell sighs like she’s the only adult in a daycare full of feral toddlers.

If you think this story ends here, bless your heart. Because the leprechaun hasn’t even shown up yet. And when he does oh, honey. Part Two is coming, and it’s about to get louder, greener, and significantly more illegal. Stay tuned because the chaos is just stretching.

Affirmation: I am calm, even when my cats declare war on magical creatures.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Self‑Harm Awareness Myths: When the Truth Shows Up With Receipts and No Patience Left

“Ignorance about self‑harm spreads fast. But education stomps out stupidity quicker than a truth bomb at a family reunion.”

 -This Puzzled Life

Light the candles. Hide the breakables. Tell the ancestors to brace themselves. We’re diving into self‑harm myths and the conservative Christian commentary, literally, no one requested. This is where we bust nonsense. Drop truth. And let the cats handle the theology since they’re the only ones qualified.

Self‑harm myths spread faster than gossip at a Mississippi baby shower. They are dramatic, wrong, and usually sourced from someone’s cousin’s friend’s Facebook post from 2012. The cats immediately held a revival in the hallway. Piper paced like a preacher warming up. Coco knocked over a Bible‑verse plaque. Tinkerbell just stared like, “Bless their hearts. But also, absolutely not.”

When some conservative Christians talk about self‑harm, they don’t offer compassion. They offer ignorance wrapped in scripture. And tied with a bow of hurtfulness. They confuse suffering with sin. And empathy with enabling. And the spiritual accuracy of a possum reading a teleprompter.

Meanwhile, the cats are like, “Have y’all tried kindness? Revolutionary concept.”

They held a full meeting:

  • Tinkerbell: “Ignorance is a choice.”
  • Coco: “And they’re choosing it like it’s on sale at Walmart.”
  • Piper: “If you don’t understand self‑harm, educate yourself. If you can’t, be quiet. If you can’t be quiet, go sit with the breakables.”

 Then we hit the myths:

  1. “They want attention.” If people wanted attention, they’d post a vague Facebook status. Self‑harm is hidden, private, and absolutely not performance art.
  2. “It only affects crazy people.” It affects anyone with a nervous system. Trauma doesn’t check IDs.
  3. “Why don’t they just ask for help?” Asking for help requires vulnerability, safety, and courage. Not everyone has that on tap.
  4. “They want to die.” Self‑harm and suicidal intent aren’t twins. They’re distant cousins who accidentally wore matching shirts.
  5.  “Talking about it makes people do it.” If talking made things happen, I’d have abs by now. Silence harms. Conversation helps.
  6. “It’s weakness.” Please. Anyone who’s survived trauma or a Southern holiday dinner is basically an emotional Navy SEAL.

And here’s the truth they never want to hear. Self‑harm is a difficult, deeply human coping behavior that can become addictive. Not a sin. Not a scandal. Not a character flaw. If I didn’t have scars, most folks wouldn’t know I’ve been navigating this for thirty‑seven years. But conservative Christians and ego‑inflated professionals always have the same three‑step treatment plan, “Open your Bible.” “We’ll add you to the prayer list.” “Just stop.” Groundbreaking. Truly. Why didn’t the entire field of psychology think of that?

Instead of compassion, they hammer nails into your coffin like it’s a church‑sponsored carpentry contest. They weaponize scripture. Sanctify stigma. And call it love. Even though judgment has never healed a single wound. But I’m still here. Still healing. Still telling the truth they’d rather bury. Still refusing to shrink so someone else can stay comfortable in their ignorance. If that makes me the family heretic, the rainbow‑colored black sheep, or the one who “asks too many questions,” then bless their hearts. I’d rather be honest and alive than silent and suffering. Thanks for reading! Stay educated.

Affirmation: I choose clarity, compassion, and growth. Ignorance has never healed a single soul.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

DID Awareness Month: Many Voices, One Whole Self

“My brain runs like a full‑time committee meeting, and the cats still think they’re the ones in charge.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s blog is about Dissociative Identity Disorder. And three cats who have absolutely no business being professionally involved. But who insist on participating like they’re on salary.

Welcome to another episode of “My Life Is a Sitcom and Nobody Warned Me.” Secure your wigs. Because today we’re diving into DID Awareness also known as “Me, Myself, and the Entire Internal Group Chat.” 

Living with DID means my brain runs like a committee meeting that could’ve been an email. And my cats act like they’re the board of directors.

Tinkerbell: “Your system is more organized than Congress.”

Coco: “At least y’all communicate.”

Piper: “If your brain ever needs a new member, I’m available.”

Me: “Piper, sweetheart, this is not American Idol: Internal System Edition.”

But here we are. Me, my parts, my healing journey, and three cats who think they’re licensed clinicians. And they are ready to bring some humor, honesty, and a little Southern seasoning to DID Awareness Month. Strap in. It’s about to get educational, emotional, and unnecessarily funny.

DID is one of those topics people whisper about like it’s a scandal, a secret, or the recipe for Coca‑Cola. But in this house? We talk about it openly, honestly, and with the kind of humor that keeps us from spontaneously combusting into a pile of stress glitter.

I have DID. Not “movie DID.” Not “Hollywood horror plot DID.” Actual, clinical, trauma‑born DID. It’s the kind that forms when a child survives more than any child ever should. And let me tell you, the cats have notes.

Tinkerbell (the wise elder): “Mom has a whole internal board of directors. I respect that. Some of y’all can’t even manage one mood.”

Coco (the judgmental aunt): “Honestly, the system is more organized than half the humans I’ve met. At least they communicate.”

Piper (chaos incarnate): “Do you think they’d let me join? I have ideas.”

Me: “Piper, this is not a talent show. This is a mental health condition.”

DID isn’t scary. It isn’t dangerous. It isn’t whatever nonsense Hollywood keeps trying to sell. It is a trauma response. A survival strategy. A brilliant adaptation. And a system built to protect a child who deserved safety. My system isn’t broken. It’s creative. It’s resilient. It’s the reason I’m still here. And the cats? They act like they’ve known every part since birth.

Tinkerbell: “Oh, this one likes soft blankets. Bring her the good one.” 

Coco: “This one needs boundaries. I’ll supervise.” 

Piper: “This one lets me climb the curtains.”

How does DID manifest? It is switching when overwhelmed and losing time. It’s different parts having different needs and internal conversations. It’s healing in layers. And learning to work as a team. It also looks like me drinking water because one part insists. Me resting because another refuses to push through. Me laughing because someone inside cracked a joke. And me healing because we’re doing this together. And the cats? They think they’re helping.

Coco: “I’m providing emotional support.” 

Piper: “I’m providing chaos.” 

Tinkerbell: “I’m providing supervision because these children need guidance.”

People with DID aren’t fragile. We aren’t dangerous. We aren’t confused. We aren’t “making it up.” We’re survivors. We’re complex. We’re healing. We’re doing the work. And we deserve understanding, not fear. Compassion, not judgment. Support, not silence.

Tinkerbell: “Respect the system. It’s doing its best.” 

Coco: “Awareness is important. Also, snacks.”

Piper: “If your brain ever needs a new member, I’m available.”

Me: “Piper, absolutely not.”

And as we wrap up this little journey through DID Awareness Month, complete with sage smoke, hydration, internal committee meetings, and three cats who are my emotional support staff .

DID is basically like trying to reboot a Wi‑Fi router from 2007. While the cats are batting the cords. The universe is buffering. And one part is whispering, “Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”

Some days I’m gliding through life like a well‑oiled machine. Other days I’m switching, grounding, journaling, and negotiating with my nervous system like it’s a toddler who missed nap time. And occasionally, the whole system is like, “Ma’am, we were not built for this timeline.” Meanwhile, the cats are offering commentary like they’re on payroll.

Here’s to us choosing growth even when our brains are running on 3% battery. Choosing compassion even when our patience is on backorder. And choosing to keep going even when life feels like a Walmart parking lot at 2 a.m.

 And then strut into the rest of your life like a woman who has survived every plot twist. Including the ones that arrived unannounced, barefoot, and holding a casserole of chaos. Because you’re still here. You’re still growing. And honestly? You’re doing better than half the people who think “self‑care” means buying a succulent and ignoring their feelings. Healing is holy. Humor is medicine. And I am too stubborn. I am too supported by my internal team and these judgmental cats to give up now. Thanks for reading! Keep moving forward.

Affirmation: I honor every part of my system. The strong ones, the soft ones, the tired ones, and the healing ones. I move through this world with resilience, humor, and a whole internal team that refuses to give up on me. I am whole, worthy, supported, and doing beautifully, no matter who’s fronting or which cat thinks they’re in charge today.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Self‑Harm Awareness Month: Where Growth Happens and My Nervous System Tries Its Best

“I didn’t choose the healing journey. The healing journey chose, dragged me and asked for gas money.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. It’s Self‑Harm Awareness Month, and if there’s one thing this month teaches us, it’s that healing is messy, sacred, and occasionally accompanied by a cat sitting on your chest like a furry emotional support paperweight.

Self‑harm is one of those topics people whisper about like it’s Voldemort, taxes, or the time they accidentally liked their ex’s Instagram post from 2014. But here? We talk about it with honesty, compassion, and the kind of humor that keeps us from spontaneously combusting. Self‑harm isn’t about attention. It’s about pain. And the people who say otherwise are usually the same ones who think essential oils can cure a broken femur.

Self‑harm doesn’t happen because someone is weak. It happens because someone is overwhelmed, hurting, or trying to survive emotions that feel too big for one body. It’s a coping mechanism. Not a character flaw. But the world loves to misunderstand what it doesn’t want to deal with. People will say things like, “Just think positive!,” “Have you tried yoga?,” “My cousin’s neighbor’s dog used to feel sad too.” Ma’am. Self‑harm is not cured by downward dog or inspirational throw pillows.

Let’s look at how the addiction occurs. The brain notices that shift and files it under: “This worked.” Not because it’s healthy. However, because it changed the emotional state quickly. The body reinforces it by sending a rush of endorphins, adrenaline, and dopamine. These chemicals temporarily reduce emotional pain or numbness. That relief, even if brief, can make the brain want to repeat the behavior. This is the same reinforcement loop seen in many addictions. Next, the cycle becomes automatic. And with overtime urgency , the brain starts linking stress → self‑harm, numbness → self‑harm, shame → self‑harm, and emotional overload → self‑harm. It becomes a reflex. A pattern, not a personality trait. A survival strategy, not a moral failing. And then shame strengthens the cycle. People who self‑harm often feel guilt, embarrassment, fear of being judged, or the pressure to hide. Those feelings can increase emotional distress. Which can then trigger the urge again. It becomes a loop that’s incredibly hard to break alone. And finally, it’s not about wanting to die. For many people, self‑harm is about wanting to feel something, wanting to feel less, wanting control, wanting relief, and wanting the emotional noise to stop. It’s a coping mechanism that becomes addictive because the pain underneath it is overwhelming. People don’t heal because they’re scolded. They heal because they’re understood.

What does help? Why don’t you try some compassion, support, safe conversations, professional care, people who don’t minimize your pain, and a community that refuses to let shame win. Some days you glide. Some days you wobble. Some days you crash into a display of discounted cereal and pretend it was part of your spiritual journey. Healing is allowed to be imperfect. You are allowed to be imperfect. You are allowed to take up space while you figure things out. “Keep going. Rest when you need to. And stop carrying pain alone.” You deserve support. You deserve compassion. You deserve to be here. And you deserve to heal without shame breathing down your neck like a judgmental church lady.

Self‑Harm Awareness Month isn’t about fear. It’s about understanding. It’s about breaking silence. It’s about reminding people they’re not alone. Not now, not ever. So, here’s to choosing growth even when it feels like a group project we didn’t sign up for, choosing compassion even when our patience is on backorder, choosing to stay when our brains are acting like and the whole system is like, “Ma’am, I was not built for this.”

Then light your sage, drink your water, moisturize your spirit, and strut into the rest of the month like a woman who has survived every plot twist life has thrown at her. Including the ones that arrived unannounced, barefoot, and holding a casserole of chaos. Because you’re still here. You’re still growing. And honestly? You’re doing better than half the people who think essential oils are a personality. 

And as we wrap up this emotional rollercoaster of a topic, complete with sage smoke, hydration, and my nervous system acting like it’s auditioning for a disaster movie. It is like trying to assemble IKEA furniture with no instructions, three missing screws, and a mysterious extra piece that definitely wasn’t in the box. I’ve also realized something important. And it is that healing is basically like trying to reboot a Wi‑Fi router from 2007. You unplug it, you wait, you pray, you bargain, you threaten it, you light a candle, and somehow it still blinks at you like, “Girl, I’m doing my best.” Same, router. 

Here’s to all of us out here choosing growth even when our brains are running on 3% battery. Choosing compassion even when our patience is on backorder. And choosing to keep going even when life feels like a Walmart parking lot at 2 a.m. You’re doing your best, you’re sweating, you’re questioning your life choices, and at some point you whisper, “If this thing collapses, I’m blaming Sweden.” Thanks for reading and remember, Healing is holy, humor is medicine, and you are too stubborn to give up now. But you keep going. Because that’s what we do. And if anyone tries to judge your healing journey, just smile sweetly and say, “Sweetheart, I’m busy becoming emotionally stable. I don’t have the bandwidth for your nonsense.” Thanks for reading! Get educated.

Affirmation: I honor my healing by choosing compassion over shame, boundaries over chaos, and growth over the nonsense that used to break me.

***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

darnold1975

The Day My Cats Politely Invited Chuckles Schumer & Hakeem Jeffries to Go Sit Down Somewhere

“My cats said they’re not being dramatic. They’re simply providing live‑action accountability theatre, and honestly I believe them.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors pull up a folding chair and witness this foolishness with us. Because today? Oh, today my cats have decided democracy needs a tune‑up, a talking‑to, and possibly a timeout. 

 I woke up this morning thinking I was going to drink my coffee in peace, maybe stare out the window like a Victorian widow waiting on a ship that ain’t coming. But no. My cats had other plans. These furry little Mississippi revolutionaries marched into my kitchen like they were about to brief the United Nations. Tails high, whiskers twitching, and a level of determination usually reserved for toddlers with markers.

I was minding my business when my cats, Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell, held what they called an “emergency household caucus.” Before I could even say “who knocked over the sweet tea,” they announced they had business with the corporate Democrats. That’s when I knew my day was already off the rails.

Piper strutted in first, tail high, wearing the expression of a cat who has read too many think pieces and is now dangerous. Coco followed, dragging a legal pad like she was preparing to depose somebody. Tinkerbell brought snacks because she believes all political action should include refreshments.

They hopped on the kitchen table like they were about to brief the press.

Piper began by saying, “Mother,” “we have concerns about the corporate Democrats.” Now, I don’t know who taught my cats the phrase corporate Democrats, but I suspect it was the ancestors. They stay whispering through these animals.

Coco cleared her throat. “We, the Feline Coalition for Chaos and Accountability, would like to formally request that Chuckles Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries step down from leadership.”

I blinked. “Step down? Why?”

Tinkerbell raised a paw like she was in Sunday school. “Because, Mother, they keep giving speeches that sound like they were written by a committee of tired interns and a malfunctioning printer. We deserve leadership with claws.”

Piper nodded vigorously. “Also, Chuckles keeps doing that thing where he smiles like he’s about to announce a sale on orthopedic shoes. It’s unsettling.”

Coco flipped her legal pad open. “And Hakeem Jeffries keeps delivering those alphabetized speeches like he’s auditioning for a Sesame Street reboot. We respect the craft, but the vibes are off.” I tried to reason with them. “Y’all can’t just tell national leaders to step down.”

Piper: “Why not? They tell everybody else what to do.”

Coco: “We’re simply offering them the opportunity to rest. They look tired. They look like they need a sabbatical and a weighted blanket.”

Tinkerbell: “And a casserole. They need a casserole.”

Then Piper hopped onto the counter, puffed her chest out, and declared, “We propose a new era of leadership, The Cat Majority.” Coco added, “We will govern with transparency, accountability, and snacks.” Tinkerbell chimed in, “And naps. Mandatory naps.”

At this point, the ancestors were laughing so hard I could feel the floorboards vibrating. The cats drafted a letter paw‑printed, of course, inviting Chuckles and Hakeem to “step aside gracefully and go enjoy a nice porch swing somewhere.” They even offered to send them home with a starter pack that consists of  a quilt, a jar of pickles, and a coupon for a free cat cuddle.

“Mother,” Piper said, “we’re not trying to be rude. We’re trying to be helpful.” Coco nodded. “Sometimes leadership means knowing when to pass the laser pointer.”

These cats stay teaching boundary wisdom. So, if you hear rumors that three Mississippi cats have launched a political action committee dedicated to refreshing Democratic leadership, just know that I tried to stop them. I really did. And they personally asked me to leave you with this, “May your leaders be bold, your snacks be plentiful, and your naps be protected by law.”

And that’s how I found myself standing in my own kitchen, barefoot, holding a biscuit, watching my cats draft a politely chaotic memo encouraging national leaders to go sit down somewhere and rest their spirits. I didn’t approve it, but I also didn’t stop it. Because honestly? Once the Feline Caucus for Accountability gets rolling, even the ancestors step back and say, “Baby, let them handle it.”  

If you hear rustling in the political bushes, don’t worry. It’s just my cats, armed with clipboards, snacks, and the audacity of creatures who sleep 18 hours a day but still think everyone else needs to do better.

In the end, after all the paw‑pointing, clipboard slapping, and snack‑based deliberations, my cats looked me dead in my human face and said, “Mother, sometimes leadership just needs to rotate like a cast‑iron skillet.” Then they sashayed off with tails high, and whiskers smug. And leaving me standing in my own kitchen like a confused extra in a political reboot of The Aristocats. And that’s when it hit me. If three house cats with no jobs, no taxes, and no respect for closed doors can demand accountability with this much confidence, then surely the rest of us can too. And with that, the Feline Caucus adjourned. Mic dropped. Claws retracted. And democracy slightly improved. Thanks for reading! Keep resisting. And ask for a change in leadership.

Affirmation: “Today I move with the confidence of a cat knocking something off the counter. Unbothered, intentional, and fully prepared to blame gravity.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Democracy, Sage, and Whatever This Year Thinks It’s Doing

“At this point, I’m not sure if I’m fighting for democracy or just trying to survive a year that keeps acting like it’s on bath salts.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. If this year had a Yelp page, I’d give it one star and a strongly worded paragraph. We are thirty‑something days into the mess of 2026, and I already feel like I’ve aged a decade. I’ve developed three new stress wrinkles. And spiritually relocated to a hammock in the void. Every morning, I wake up, stretch, hydrate, and whisper, “Lord, please don’t let the news be stupid today.” And every morning the universe replies, “Lol, girl… buckle up.”

This year is already acting like it’s on a Red Bull and trauma cocktail, and I’m just trying to keep my chakras aligned and my blood pressure below “boiling crawfish water.” Because friends, we have made it through one month of this year, and I already feel like I’ve lived through three seasons of a political horror series that nobody asked for. One month down, eleven to go in this year, and I’m already spiritually dehydrated, emotionally crunchy, and mentally on airplane mode.

But before we collapse into a heap of snacks and despair, we need to remember something. We are living through one of the most crucial moments in our country’s history. Not the fun kind. Not the “look at us making progress” kind. The “why does it feel like the universe put us on the wrong timeline” kind.

I’ve lived through some terrifying chapter moments where the country felt shaken to its bones. And now, in these recent years, we’ve watched scenes unfold in our own streets that feel like they belong in a dystopian movie Not in the United States of America. It’s heartbreaking. It’s exhausting. It’s infuriating. But here we are. Still standing. Still fighting. Still lighting sage like it’s a full‑time job.

This year isn’t just another year. It’s a battle for the soul of our democracy. And for the freedoms that generations before us fought, marched, bled, and prayed for. And yes, it feels like those freedoms are hanging on by a thread. A frayed, overworked, overstressed thread that needs a nap and a snack.

We cannot sit back and hope the courts fix it. We’ve seen enough to know that institutions don’t always protect us the way they should. So, we do what people in this country have always done when the system fails. We raise our voices. We show up. We refuse to be silent.

And if that means losing friends, family members, coworkers, or that one Facebook cousin who thinks memes are research? So be it. Democracy is not a group project where everyone gets an A for showing up. You pick a side. You stand for freedom and equality, or you stand with the people trying to dismantle them. There is no middle ground left.

And let me be clear. If someone chooses to align themselves with cruelty, corruption, or movements that excuse harm, they will not be around me or the people I love. Period. Boundaries are healthy. Boundaries are holy. Boundaries are the reason some of us are still sane. Because the same folks who scream “family values” the loudest are often the ones forgetting what values actually are. They’ll clutch their pearls over drag queens reading storybooks. But stay silent when real harm happens in their own communities. The hypocrisy is so strong it could power the entire state of Mississippi if we could bottle it.

And don’t even get me started on “purity culture.” The idea of signing my virginity over to my father? Absolutely not. I would rather have a hysterectomy with a ballpoint pen. Here’s the real truth beneath all the rage, humor and exhaustion. We will not have a future if we don’t fight for the present. Democracy doesn’t disappear all at once. It erodes, inch by inch, while people look away. And once it’s gone, it’s gone.

So, we stay loud. We stay vigilant. We stay connected. We stay hopeful even when hope feels like a thrift‑store candle burning on its last wick. Because the future is watching us. And we are not going down quietly. As we drag ourselves through the rest of this year like a Walmart buggy with one busted wheel, let us remember that we are tired, yes. We are stressed, absolutely. We are one headline away from screaming into a pillow, correct.

We are also loud, alive, unbothered in spirit, and too damn stubborn to let democracy slip away on our watch. So, light your sage. Charge your crystals. Hydrate your soul. And prepare your voice because silence is a luxury we cannot afford. We will fight. We will vote. We will show up like the ancestors are watching because they are. And when this year tries to test us again, we will simply look it dead in the eye and say, “Not today, demon.” Thanks for reading! And keep hope alive. 

Affirmation: I stay grounded, loud, and unbothered, because my spirit refuses to let chaos, clowns, or corrupt leaders dim the light the ancestors handed me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Black History Month: Where the Ancestors Whisper ‘Keep Going’

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

— Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Because today, we’re stepping into a month that carries the weight of history, the fire of resilience, and the joy that refuses to be dimmed. This is Black History Month, and we’re honoring it with truth, emotion, and a little humor. I, for one,  know that sometimes laughter is the only thing keeping any of us from flipping a table.

Black History Month is not just a commemorative event. It’s a living, breathing reminder of the brilliance, struggle, creativity, and endurance of Black Americans. It began as Negro History Week in 1926, founded by historian Carter G. Woodson and the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History. The week was intentionally placed in February to align with the birthdays of Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln, two figures central to Black liberation.

Over time, the celebration grew, and in 1976, it officially expanded into Black History Month, recognized by every U.S. president since. Today, it is celebrated across the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. And every February 1st, corporations suddenly “discover” Black people exist. But we’re going to focus on the real story (https://www.blackhistoryandheritage.com/article/black-history-month/origins-black-history-month?utm_source=copilot.com.)

Black history is a story of survival and excellence that deserves its own cinematic universe. It’s the spirituals sung in fields where hope was outlawed. It’s the Harlem Renaissance that has exploded with art, music, and literature that still shapes culture today. It’s the Civil Rights Movement marching with blistered feet and unbreakable courage. It’s Black scientists, inventors, activists, teachers, and everyday heroes shaping the world. And often while the world pretended not to notice.

Black History Month holds space for:

  • Grief for what was stolen.
  • Rage for what was endured.
  • Awe for what was created.
  • Joy that refuses to be dimmed.
  • Humor that has carried generations through the impossible.

Black humor is a survival skill. It’s the auntie who tells the truth with a side of shade. It’s the uncle who swears he marched with Dr. King even though he was born in 1972. It’s the family reunion where the food is seasoned, the stories are exaggerated, and the love is louder. Humor doesn’t erase the pain. It makes the journey bearable. The work isn’t done. Because the wounds aren’t healed. Because the systems aren’t equal. Because the stories still need telling. Because the future still needs building.

This is a reminder that the story is still being written in classrooms, in living rooms, in protests, in art, in laughter, in love. And if you listen closely, you can hear the ancestors whispering: “Keep going. And baby, don’t forget to moisturize.”

As we light the charcoal and sprinkle the sage, may we remember that it’s not just to clear the air. But to honor the ancestors who cleared paths with their bare hands. We breathe deeply for the generations who weren’t allowed to. We laugh loudly for the ones who needed joy but didn’t get enough of it. We celebrate fiercely for the dreams that were deferred but never destroyed.

“As a white person, I honor Black History Month by listening more than I speak, learning what I was never taught, and showing up with humility instead of ego. I affirm my commitment to unlearning harmful narratives, amplifying Black voices, and standing on the right side of history. I choose growth over comfort, accountability over silence, and action over performative allyship. I honor the legacy of Black brilliance by being someone who refuses to look away.” Thanks for reading! And keep on keeping on.

Affirmation: I honor Black History Month by choosing growth, listening with intention, and respect.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife