This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Some days you need a strain that doesn’t ask questions. It just hands you peace.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re calling in a strain that purrs. Prowls. And pads softly across the senses like a spoiled housecat who knows she’s the main character. Welcome to your Budtender Moment highlighting the strain Guava Kitty.
Guava Kitty is an indica-dominant hybrid. It’s the kind that curls up in your lap. Kneads your soul a little. And whispers “sit down somewhere” without raising its voice. Guava Kitty’s lineage is a whole family reunion with folding chairs, paper plates, and somebody’s auntie telling you to fix your posture. It’s a cross between Guava × Kitty Hawk. Guava is a cross between Gelato × Guava Kush. Kitty Hawk is a cross between Alien OG × Blueberry. This is a lineage that says, “Yes, I’m fruity, but I also come with ancestral wisdom and a little cosmic mischief.”
Guava Kitty tastes like a tropical fruit bowl that got blessed by a Southern auntie. And then left to chill in the fridge overnight. And the flavors are ripe guava, sweet berry, creamy undertones, with a whisper of earthy kush on the exhale. It’s bright, juicy, and decadent. And like biting into fruit you didn’t pay for because someone’s grandma insisted you take it home.
The terpene profile is Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Limonene. This terpene trio is the holy trinity of “relax, release, and let the day go.” Together they create a vibe that feels like a weighted blanket with a sense of humor. Patients report relief from stress, anxiety, muscle tension, body aches, mood elevation, sleep support, and appetite stimulation. It’s the strain you reach for when your brain is doing too much, your shoulders are up by your ears, and you need to be gently escorted back into your body.
Please keep in mind that depending on differences in grows depends on what area of the country it is grown in. Ther will also be slight differences depending on when and where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?
Affirmation: I release the noise, honor my softness, and let calm find me with ease.
“A society that traumatizes its children cannot call itself free. It can only call itself unfinished.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. If we’re going to talk about what’s happening to an entire generation of kids in this country, we might as well acknowledge the smoke, the heat, and the fact that someone, some system, keeps pretending they don’t smell the fire they started.
That’s what I tell myself every time the news hits too hard. When the stories feel too big, When the grief gets stuck in my throat. Grounding myself is the only way I can face the reality that children in our country are being traumatized by the very systems that claim to protect them.
And it’s not the “kids these days have it rough” kind of trauma. Not the “life is hard, they’ll be fine” kind of trauma. No. I’m talking about the kind that leaves scars you can’t see but can feel for a lifetime. We’re watching children grow up in a society that keeps calling them “resilient,” as if resilience is a prize and not a survival mechanism. As if being traumatized is some kind of character‑building exercise.
Oh, congratulations, you’ve unlocked Level 10 Emotional Endurance. Your reward is more adversity. And sarcasm is the only seasoning that makes this palatable. Because the truth is bitter. Our government’s dysfunction, cruelty, and chaos are shaping our kids in ways we won’t fully understand for decades.
Children are absorbing fear like secondhand smoke. They’re inhaling uncertainty. They’re watching adults crumble under policies and crises that never should’ve existed in the first place. And while all this is happening, we are living in a nation where children are having their parents ripped from their arms. Families are separated like someone is sorting laundry instead of human beings. Kids, actual kids, are being put in cages. Some Americans are cheering for it, proudly declaring, “They deserve it.”
And while they cheer, children are being:
Physically abused
Sexually abused
Forced to work for around $1 an hour
Fed food with worms
Denied medical care
This isn’t metaphor. This isn’t exaggeration. This is happening on our soil. And we’re supposed to pretend this won’t shape an entire generation? We already have a mental health crisis bursting at the seams. It’s understaffed. Underfunded. And overwhelmed. Kids are learning anxiety before they learn multiplication. They know the word “lockdown” before they know “confidence.” They watch adults fight for basic rights and think that’s just how life works. This isn’t resilience. This is trauma dressed up as “normal.” And the worst part? We’re gaslit into believing this is just the way things are now. Like the trauma is a feature, not a bug.
But here’s the mic drop. Trauma doesn’t disappear. It compounds. It grows roots. It becomes generational. And when you plant fear, instability, and cruelty in children, you don’t get a stronger society. You get a wounded one. We are cooking a future we are not prepared to eat. Because the children who survive this. Who grow up in cages. Who grow up watching their parents taken. Whoever grow up being told by a cheering crowd that their suffering is deserved, they will carry this with them into adulthood. Into parenthood. And into society.
We are not raising resilience. We are raising trauma survivors. And the people cheering? They don’t realize they’re cheering for a future that will haunt all of us. This isn’t politics. This is humanity. Or the lack of it. A society that harms children, any children, cannot call itself moral. It can only call itself complicit. Thanks for reading! And wake up America. Our children need protecting.
Affirmation: I refuse to be numb to what hurts us. I see the truth. I speak the truth. And I protect the next generation with my voice, my heart, and my fire.
“If humans stopped trying to convert queer people and started converting their own hypocrisy, the world would finally be cat‑approved.”
-Tinkerbell
The charcoal is lit. Sage is swirling. And the Mississippi humidity is thick enough to baptize a biscuit. My cats have decided to open a Conversion Therapy Center. And it is the exact opposite of the real, harmful mess humans invented.
In the human world, “conversion therapy” has meant decades of trying to bully, shame, terrify, or spiritually blackmail queer folks into pretending to be straight. It’s been condemned by medical associations, mental‑health professionals, and anyone with a functioning moral compass. It’s caused trauma, depression, and a whole lot of people sprinting out of closets like they were on fire.
But in my house? If my cats ran conversion therapy, the only thing they’d be converting your would be anxiety into a nap. Your shame into a purr. Your internalized homophobia into a snack break. And your fear into “come lay down, you’re safe here.” Cats don’t believe in changing who you are. They believe in changing where you sit. How often you pet them. And whether you understand that your lap is community property.
Me: “Why is there a sign on the door that says, “CONVERSION THERAPY: NOW ACCEPTING WALK‑INS AND RUN‑AWAYS?”
Tinkerbell: “Because humans clearly don’t know how to run one ethically, so we’re taking over.”
Coco: “Our methods are evidence‑based. The evidence is that you look stressed and we want snacks.”
Piper: (already dialing the therapist)“I’m calling her. We need professional input. Also, I may have scheduled you for a double session.”
Me: “Piper, you cannot call our therapist every time you have a thought.”
Piper: “I can and I will. I am a mental‑health advocate.”
Tinkerbell: “Now sit. We’re going to treat the trauma caused by those humans who thought they could ‘pray the gay away.’”
Coco: “Ridiculous. You can’t pray away something that fabulous.”
Me: “So what exactly is your treatment plan?”
Tinkerbell: “Step one: unconditional acceptance.”
Coco: “Step two: snacks.”
Piper: “Step three: we convert your self‑doubt into a nap. A long one. With me on your chest.”
Me: “That’s it?”
Tinkerbell: “That’s all anyone ever needed. Shame is a human invention. We don’t participate. We support traditional values like naps, boundaries, and minding your own business.”
Coco: “We oppose hypocrisy. If you say you love people, then love them. Don’t weaponize it.”
Piper: “We believe in small government. Specifically, a government small enough to fit on the couch and not tell anyone who they’re allowed to love.”
Tinkerbell: “We also believe in freedom. Freedom to be queer. Freedom to be soft. Freedom to not be spiritually assaulted by people who can’t even season their chicken.”
Coco: “Amen.”
Me: “Why is the living room rearranged like a counseling center from a 1970s pamphlet?”
Tinkerbell: “Because we’re reclaiming the term ‘conversion therapy’ and converting it back to something humane.”
Coco: “Also because you needed an intervention. And because we wanted to sit in the spinny chair.”
Piper (already holding my phone like she pays the bill): “I’m calling our therapist. She needs to supervise this. You’re spiraling again.”
Me: “Piper, you cannot call our therapist every time I sigh.”
Piper: “You sighed in lowercase. That’s a cry for help.”
Tinkerbell: “Now sit down. We’re beginning the intake process.”
I sit. The couch groans like it knows what’s coming.
Coco: “State your name and the last time you felt fully accepted.”
Me: …
Coco: “Exactly. That’s why you’re here.”
Tinkerbell: “We’re going to address the trauma caused by those humans who thought they could ‘fix’ queer people with fear, shame, and pamphlets printed on cheap paper.”
Piper: “We don’t do shame here. We do snacks.”
Me: “So what’s the treatment plan?”
Tinkerbell: “Step one: We convert your internalized nonsense into purring.”
Coco: “Step two: We convert your anxiety into a nap. A long one. With weighted‑blanket cat.”
Piper: “Step three: We convert your belief that you must earn love into the understanding that you are loved because you exist. Also, because you feed us.”
Me: “That’s actually beautiful.”
Piper: “Don’t get mushy. I’m still calling the therapist.”
She presses the same button 14 times. The phone opens the calculator.
Tinkerbell: “Now, let’s talk about the real conversion therapy. The harmful kind. The one humans invented.”
Coco: “The one that tried to turn queer people straight by scaring them, shaming them, or telling them God was disappointed.”
Piper: “God made rainbows. Y’all need to calm down.”
Tinkerbell: “Our clinic does the opposite. We convert you back to yourself.”
Coco: “We convert you back to softness.”
Piper: “We convert you back to joy. And also, to the correct position for cuddling.”
Me: “So your therapy is basically love?”
Tinkerbell: “Love, naps, snacks, and accountability.”
Coco: “And calling out hypocrisy when we see it.”
Piper: “Especially the kind where people preach ‘love’ but practice ‘control.’”
Tinkerbell: “We don’t do that here. We do liberation.”
Coco: “And treats.”
Piper: “And calling the therapist.”
So, if my cats ran conversion therapy, it wouldn’t be about forcing queer people into boxes they were never meant to fit in. It wouldn’t be about shame disguised as holiness. It wouldn’t be about fear dressed up as “family values.” It would be about unlearning the lies you were told about yourself. It would be about reclaiming the softness you buried to survive. It would be about healing the parts of you that were taught to hide. It would be about converting the world’s cruelty into your own comfort.
My cats who are judgmental, biscuit‑making therapists know something the humans who invented harmful conversion therapy never understood. You don’t fix people by breaking them. You fix people by loving them so loudly that the shame can’t hear itself anymore. And if that means forced cuddling? If that means naps you didn’t schedule? If that means Piper calling our therapist every time I breathe wrong? Then so be it.
Charcoal is still burning. Sage still swirling. Cats still running the clinic. And the world still not ready for this level of queer‑affirming Southern‑gothic healing. Thanks for reading! And denounce conversion therapy. What are your thoughts?
Affirmation: “I am not here to be changed. I am here to be cherished without apology.”
“If your righteousness requires my suffering, then your holiness is nothing but cruelty dressed in Sunday clothes.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Invoke the ancestors. Lord, this country has lost its mind. Let the smoke rise like a prayer and a warning. Call the ones who survived storms, men, laws, and the kind of sanctified hypocrisy that could curdle milk in August. Today we’re talking about abortion rights in this country. And I’m bringing every ounce of Southern sass, righteous fury, and generational truth you asked for.
When Roe v. Wade was overturned, it wasn’t just a political decision. It was a death sentence for mothers, daughters, nieces, cousins, and every woman who has ever had to decide about her own damn body. And the same Christians who holler “God’s will” like they’re auditioning for a revival tent, are the first ones who would sneak their daughters across state lines faster than a Pentecostal deacon running from a scandal.
Let’s tell the truth. They don’t want their daughters forced to carry a rapist’s baby. They want your daughters to. And they justify it with that tired line, “Well, if it’s in God’s will…” If God’s will was that clear, he’d send a notarized letter. But these folks cherry-pick scripture like they’re at a Golden Corral buffet. They’ll quote “Thou shalt not kill” while ignoring every verse where the Bible literally commands pregnancy termination under certain circumstances.
Bible Sources They Never Bring Up
Numbers 5:11–31-The “ordeal of bitter water,” where a priest gives a woman a potion to end a pregnancy if she conceived through adultery.
Hosea 9:14 -“Give them a miscarrying womb.”
Exodus 21:22–25 – A fetus is not treated as a person. Causing a miscarriage is a property crime, not murder.
If abortion is murder, then unplugging a brain-dead family member from life support should be prosecuted too. Because guess what? A fetus before sentience has no subjective experience. No awareness. No consciousness. No “personhood.” It is ethically equivalent to ending life support on someone who has already lost the ability to experience anything at all. But they don’t want to hear that. Because logic ain’t welcome in the Gospel of Ike Turner. Which is the version of Christianity where violence against women is excused, justified, and sanctified.
As someone who has been assaulted many times, I will say this with my whole chest. I would not carry my rapist’s baby. That child was not conceived in love. It was not wanted. It was not chosen. And it was not consensual.
And as an adopted child, I know the psychological toll of being rejected. My birth mother looked me in the eyes and said, “You were an inconvenience and you still are.” Had she chosen abortion, it would’ve spared me decades of emotional torment. Adoption is not the soft, rosy alternative they pretend it is. It is trauma wrapped in a bow.
Let’s talk about the 10-year-old girl in Ohio who was raped by a 27-year-old man. She became pregnant. Her state refused her an abortion. She had to flee to another state like a fugitive. A child. Not a woman. Not a mother. A baby forced to carry a baby.
The physical damage alone could have killed her. The psychological damage will echo for decades. And abortion isn’t covered by insurance. So, unless you’ve got $600–$2,000 lying around, you’re stuck. Cruelty disguised as morality.
Let me tell you something plain, loud, and with the kind of Southern truth that doesn’t need sweet tea to go down smooth. Legal abortions are safer than the desperate, back‑alley horrors women were forced into before Roe. A medical abortion performed by trained professionals is one of the safest procedures in modern healthcare. It’s safer than childbirth. Safer than dental surgery. And safer than pretending purity culture ever protected anybody. But when you take that option away, women don’t stop needing abortions. They just stop having safe ones. And history shows exactly what happens next with coat hangers, bleach, stairs, trauma, infection, and death. Women bleeding out alone in bathrooms because lawmakers wanted moral points instead of medical reality. Criminalizing abortion doesn’t save lives. It sends women back into the shadows where they die trying to save themselves.
WHY ABORTION MUST BE LEGAL
1. Rape and incest survivors deserve bodily autonomy. No child or adult should be forced to carry their trauma.
Medical emergencies require immediate termination options. Ectopic pregnancies, sepsis, hemorrhaging where abortion saves lives.
Fetuses without sentience are not persons.Neuroscience confirms this.
People will always have sex. Morality does not override biology.
Contraception fails. Even perfect use has failure rates.
Forced birth increases poverty. The U.S. has the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world.
Adoption is not a cure-all. It is trauma for many children and mothers.
Unwanted children suffer lifelong consequences. Emotional, financial, psychological.
Criminalizing abortion criminalizes miscarriage. Women are already being investigated for spontaneous pregnancy loss.
Healthcare decisions belong to patients, not politicians. Period.
And if you need credible references, try these:
Guttmacher Institute
CDC Maternal Mortality Reports
American Psychological Association
American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists
National Institute of Mental Health
Pew Research Center
The Lancet Medical Journal
WHO Reproductive Health Data
Light the charcoal again because this needs a second burn. Abortion is healthcare. Abortion is mercy. Abortion is autonomy. Abortion is survival. And anyone who claims it’s “God’s will” while secretly protecting their own daughters is not righteous. They’re cowardly. They’re hypocrites. They’re weaponizing religion to control women.
If Christians want to call abortion murder, then they better start arresting every family who ever unplugged a loved one from life support. But they won’t. Because deep down, they know the truth. Sentience is the line. Consciousness is the line. Human experience is the line. And forcing birth is not holiness. It is cruelty dressed in scripture.
I stand with every woman who has ever had to make this decision. I stand with every survivor who refuses to carry their trauma. I stand with every child who deserves a life chosen. Not forced. And I stand with you, Southern sass, survivor strength, and ancestral fire. May the ancestors walk with us as we fight for the right to our own bodies. May the smoke rise and carry our truth. May the next generation inherit freedom, not fear.
Affirmation: I honor my body, my story, and my right to choose. My autonomy is sacred. My voice is powerful. And my ancestors walk beside me.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk to you about a delicious little strain called Pink Certz by Apotha.
Pink Certz is a balanced hybrid that’s a cross between The Menthol x Grape Gasoline. The Menthol is a cross between Gelato 45 x White Diesel. And Grape Gasoline is a cross between Jet Fuel Gelato x Georgia Pie. This strain has a very citrusy smell and taste. And to me it tastes similar to a grapefruit.
The main terpenes are Limonene, Linalool, Caryophyllene and Endo Fenchyl. Medical benefits include relief from depression, chronic stress, anxiety, nausea, appetite loss. And reportedly, this strain works really well for Parkinson’s patients. This is not a really heavy hybrid. But it definitely hits hard with relief. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
Affirmation: Nothing or nobody can stop me from blazing today.
“Listen, if Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell can march into a medical facility like they’re auditioning for America’s Next Top Patient, then I can survive one little mammogram. Confidence is contagious. Especially when it sheds.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal Sprinkle the sage. And pull up a chair and a heating pad. Because today we are talking about breast cancer awareness and the sacred Southern pilgrimage known as The Annual Mammogram, also known as, “The Day Your Boobs Meet the Panini Press of Destiny.”
And I am reporting live from the land of paper gowns, cold metal plates, and the annual reminder that my boobs are apparently public property for exactly 17 minutes. I walked into that imaging center feeling confident, moisturized, and blessed. And walked out looking like I’d just survived a WWE smackdown between my left titty and a hydraulic press.
Because nothing says “self‑care” like waking up at 6 a.m., chugging coffee, and driving across town to let a stranger flatten your chest like a Sunday biscuit. And listen, awareness matters. Early detection saves lives. But Lord, the way the world goes full Pepto Bismol in October with pink socks, pink yogurt lids, pink football cleats, and a pink ribbon shaped pancakes at IHOP. Meanwhile, Southern aunties everywhere are out here reminding you, “Baby, have you scheduled your mammogram yet? Don’t make me call Jesus and Blue Cross.”
You walk in. Sign your name. And immediately get handed a clipboard and a gown made from the same material as a Dollar Tree napkin. The nurse says, “Open in the front,” like you’re about to perform at the Grand Ole Opry. It’s always too short, too breezy, too confusing, and somehow both choking you and falling off your shoulders. You sit there clutching it closed like a Victorian widow.
The mammogram machine looks like something NASA built in the 80s and forgot to update. It has one job. Turn your boob into a crepe. The tech is always sweet, calm, and named something like Linda or Marsha. And she says things like, “Okay honey, just relax.” Relax? Ma’am, my nipple is currently pointing due north, and my soul has left my body.
Linda gently places your tit on the cold plate like she’s arranging a charcuterie board. Then she lowers the top plate. And lowers it. And lowers it. And keeps lowering it until your ancestors feel it. You’re standing there thinking, “Is this what a panini feels like?” “Did I pay my life insurance?” “Why is my left boob suddenly in 2D?” Linda steps back and says, “Hold your breath.” Ma’am, I haven’t breathed since the parking lot. The machine finally lets go. And your boob re-inflates like a sad balloon at a kid’s birthday party. You look down like, “Girl, you okay?” Your boob looks back like, “No.”
Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell rolled up to their first mammograms like three tiny, furry Southern aunties who had absolutely rehearsed for this moment in the mirror. Piper marched in like she was the keynote speaker at the Breast Cancer Awareness Gala. Tail high, whiskers sharp, attitude louder than a Baptist choir. She hopped onto the check‑in counter and announced, “I’m here for my annual preventative maintenance, thank you.”
When the tech tried to hand her a paper gown, Piper sniffed it. Rolled her eyes. And said with her whole spirit, “This is polyester. I don’t do polyester.” She then attempted to operate the mammogram machine herself because “clearly no one else here has the range.”
Coco entered the building already offended. By what? Everything. The lighting. The temperature. The clipboard. The fact that she was asked to “wait her turn.” When the tech explained the process, Coco gasped like she’d been personally victimized. “EXCUSE ME?! You’re going to flatten what? These are heirlooms!” She then demanded a second opinion, a supervisor, and a snack.
Tinkerbell walked in wearing the confidence of a cat who has never once paid taxes or faced consequences. She took one look at the machine. Hissed. And then tried to climb it like it was a jungle gym. When the tech attempted to position her, Tinkerbell went limp like a toddler who doesn’t want to be picked up. Then she suddenly sprang back to life. Slapped the machine. And stole a pink ribbon off the wall like a tiny breast‑cancer‑awareness pirate. By the time it was over, the tech was sweating. The receptionist was praying. And the machine had filed for workers’ comp.
Piper strutted out like she’d just completed a TED Talk. Coco demanded her medical records “for emotional reasons.” Tinkerbell declared herself the new face of Feline Breast Health. And tried to pose for photos no one was taking. Cats dismissed. Awareness achieved. And the imaging center is now closed for spiritual repairs.
Breast cancer is real. And early detection saves lives. Because too many of our mamas, aunties, cousins, and sisters have fought this battle. Awareness isn’t just pink ribbons. It’s action. It’s appointments. It’s uncomfortable machines. It’s choosing yourself even when it’s inconvenient. And because most Southern women don’t play about two things. Jesus and preventative healthcare.
Schedule the mammogram. Wear the ugly gown. Let Linda flatten and fold your boob like a church bulletin. And walk out of that imaging center knowing you just did the bravest, squishiest thing a human can do. Laugh about it later. And remember. Your tatas are worth the trouble. And that’s the gospel truth. If surviving a mammogram doesn’t earn you a medal, parade, FIFA trophy, Nobel Peace Prize and a lifetime supply of padded bras, then society is broken beyond repair. Boobs checked. Blessings distributed.
And that, my friends, concludes this year’s episode of “Whose Boob Is It Anyway?” The only show where the points don’t matter. The machine always wins. And your nipple ends up pointing toward a constellation you’ve never heard of. Schedule the mammogram. Wear the tragic gown. Let Linda flatten you like a communion wafer. And then treat yourself to something fried. Because at the end of the day, your girls deserve to be checked, protected, and celebrated. And preferably with a bra that costs less than your car payment. Thanks for reading! Schedule your mammogram.
Affirmation: I am bold, blessed, and unbothered. My boobs, my boundaries, and my emotional support cats are all thriving. Today I face the squish with dignity, humor, and the chaotic energy of a feline who refuses to wear a paper gown.
“If self‑care requires a loan application, it’s not wellness. It’s a scam with eucalyptus.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling the Wellness Industrial Complex until it admits it’s been robbing us blind like a raccoon in Lululemon leggings. Self‑care has evolved from “take a nap and drink some water” to “sell a kidney so you can afford a serum infused with moonlight, angel tears, and ethically sourced unicorn collagen.”
Every time I open Instagram, some wellness guru named Saffron Moonbeam is perched on a rock in Sedona telling me, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Ma’am, I can’t even afford the cup. The cup is $89.99 and comes with a crystal straw that promises to “align my abundance chakra.” Meanwhile my bank account is over here whispering, “Your abundance chakra is over drafted by $37.12.”
Let’s take a guided tour through the self‑care items that the wellness industry swears I need. And the financial crimes they commit against my checking account.
$300 Serums-Apparently my face needs a potion made from fermented cloud vapor and the hopes of Scandinavian virgins. For $300, this serum better erase wrinkles, trauma, and student loans.
Sedona Retreats-“Reconnect with your inner child for only $4,999.” For $4,999 my inner child better come out doing taxes, laundry, and emotional labor.
Organic Herbal Teas-Why is tea $22 a bag? It’s leaves. Leaves! I can go outside and get leaves for free. Mississippi has leaves everywhere. I’m basically surrounded by generational wealth.
Crystal Water Bottles-$120 for a bottle with a rock in it. I can get a rock from my driveway. I can get a whole collection of rocks. I can start a rock museum.
Sound Baths-$75 to lay on the floor while someone hits a bowl with a spoon. I can do that at home with my cookware and a bad attitude.
Weighted Blankets-$200 to feel like a Victorian ghost is sitting on my chest. I can get that for free by thinking about my to‑do list.
Yoga Pants-$98 for leggings that roll down the second I inhale. For $98 they should hold me together emotionally, spiritually, and physically.
Let me tell you something. My ancestors did not survive polio, wars, and the Great Depression. So, I could spend half a paycheck on a jade roller that promises to “release facial tension.” My grandmother would rise from the grave. Slap the serum out of my hand and say, “Splash some cold water on your face and go sit down somewhere.” And honestly? She’d be right. Because self‑care is not supposed to require a credit check, a payment plan, or a GoFundMe titled ‘Help Me Achieve Inner Peace.’
Sometimes self‑care is drinking water. Taking a nap. Ignoring people. Eating a snack. Telling the world “no” with your whole chest. And none of that costs $300. Bowl rung. Crystal shattered. Sedona canceled. Thanks for reading! What’s your most outrageously overpriced “self‑care” moment? And did it at least come with a free sample or a spiritual awakening, or nah?
Affirmation: I am whole. I am worthy. And I do not need a $300 serum to glow. My radiance is free. My peace is priceless. And my bank account deserves rest too.
“Marijuana is proof that plants are smarter than people give them credit for.”
-Unknown
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain called Tiger’s Blood.
Tiger’s Blood is an indica-dominant hybrid. Many sources trace Tiger’s Blood back to OG Kush genetics. Some product listings suggest it may be bred from Tiger Paw × OG Kush. In the cannabis world, strain genetics can differ between breeders and regional markets. This means that Tiger’sBlood may not have one universally accepted pedigree. And like the snow cone flavoring it’s a mixture of berry tastes.
The top terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Caryophyllene, Limonene, Pinene, and Linalool. Patients report relief from chronic pain management, muscle relaxation, inflammation relief, stress, anxiety, relaxation, sleep, appetite stimulation, muscle spasms and cramps. This particular strain I’m using in a vape. And I really like it. It’s one that I can use on the go but without the “couch lock.” Thanks for reading! Keep blazin’.
Affirmation: Cannabis helps me slow down, listen inward, and breathe.
