nerf guns

darnold1975

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

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

-This Puzzled Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***Don’t forget to watch the video!!!

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Bang! They Shot Me!

“It’s all fun and games until someone takes a dart to the eye.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. As spring begins to make its mark, I start looking forward to having the cubs come spend some time with me during their spring break. The cold nights are beginning to fade. The hummingbirds start scouting for feeders. And many people take this time to rekindle their relationships with the flowers and gardening.

For many of us winter time leaves us with the attitude of blahhhhhh. It certainly does for me. I enjoy leaving my door open and circulating the fresh cool air. Tink and Coco enjoy both the air and watching the bugs and birds of the season. And the boys enjoy going outside down to the creek and playing with water guns. But what never seems to have a particular season are nerf gun wars. And they show no mercy for their friends and family.

Copeland has a place in my little habitat where he takes his mattress and drags it to the top of wooden shelving about 8 feet off the ground and covered by a curtain where he can enjoy some quiet time away from me and big brother, Marshall. This area has become affectionately known as the “Eagle’s Nest.” He normally has a nerf gun close at hand along with his tablet. Marshall usually has his gaming headphones or talking to online friends. And I’m diamond painting or planning things to do while keeping my ears and eyes open taking it all in.

Everything seems to be going good until Copeland fires a random shot at me from behind the curtain nailing me directly in the eyebrow with a nerf gun bullet. I let out a loud, “Ow!” He laughs hysterically which seems to trigger Marshall’s curiosity. Now they both need and want to be a part of the action. I love my boys dearly. However, at this point, they care nothing about their mom or other bystanders’ need for safety. Those foamed bullets with plastic tips began flying from the barrels of various guns striking me in every area of my body. Nerf Gun War: Game On!

They have gathered every bit of the ammo with the exception of maybe five bullets that are given to me. I have absolutely no protective cover. And they have an entire curtain. And I have been forced to try and pick up the landed bullets while still being shot with perfect aim. They can’t seem to aim clothes perfectly in the clothes basket. Nor can they aim their trash into a garbage can. However, they seem to aim perfectly with nerf guns that can have military snipers shaking in their boots.y

I began to tell myself, “Their childish giggling will make it all worth it.”  Soon, though, my entire body is covered in red dots complimentary of hundreds landing shots on my now painful body. I search frantically for cover. Sometimes it’s a roll of toilet paper, towel, blanket or a garbage can. Anything that I can successfully reach, in the moment, becomes a form of cover. And then…I ran out of ammo. I think to myself, “Why didn’t we use protection?!” 

I call, “Time Out! I’m out of ammo!” They say, “Ok! Cease fire! Momma needs to get bullets!” I gingerly drop my cover and observe my wounds not knowing if I’m really alive. My eyebrows are now swollen. And the only feeling that I can identify is OUCH! I begin to hear whispers  and giggles among the offenders. I look up and Pow! I take another one directly to the middle of my forehead. They break out into total sugar drunken laughter while saying, “We love you, momma!” And I reply, “Stop lying! No you don’t! You just shot me in my nipple!” This makes the entire situation that much funnier to them. I say in my loudest and desperate voice, “I wish you would just eat a large clown turd!” And they continue to laugh hysterically.

As I frantically gather bullets near me and fling them in their general direction, they land a barrage of bullets again, completely crushing my self-confidence in my ability to win as if that was even a remote possibility. I hurriedly run into the middle of the floor gathering more bullets and I take one directly in the butt crack. “Ow!” I painfully scream. 

I take my gathered stash that fills the clip that I now have secured in my half working gun. I see my moment while they are making battle plans to get in a cheap shot like the many that my body now shows its evidence. I fire away only for my bullet to land about five feet from my position. They don’t even seem to notice. I fired several more times with the same ferocity. I still don’t even get close to landing a shot. I shout loudly, “This piece of crap gun with no boom!” And my youngest son Copeland laughs harder. I take my remaining bullets and realize my now harsh reality. I have to throw my bullets. They have sabotaged my ability to win this war.

The mayhem eventually dies down. Copeland and whoever else attempting to kill me climbs down out of the “Eagle’s nest” to come look at my battle wounds. They are still laughing and I have a bruised fingernail, swollen elbows, a pulled hamstring, inflamed eyelashes, diminished hearing in my right ear, a runny nose brought on by a direct shot, a burning belly button, red dots up and down my shins, an itchy armpit and farts that sound like a suffering animal needing euthanasia. These wounds I did not have prior to Camp Frat Pad WWIII. 

These moments while painful I wouldn’t trade for one minute. I am able to relive my childhood vicariously through my children with some Advil and an ice pack. And for them, it’s just another fun time with momma where we are making memories while they enjoy being kids. To them, it’s not about whether or not I’m gay or straight. Or how much money I have or don’t have. I’m just momma. And I can do nothing but smile. Later, I would cuddle with my “non-expanding recreational foam experts.”

“All is fair in love and Nerf war.”

-Unknown

***Don’t forget to watch the video! Copeland chose the song for this blog.***

#Thispuzzledlife