This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Turn the thermostat down to “Don’t Play With Me.” Today’s story begins with Piper. She’s my overly chaotic, dramatic, emotionally unstable lead actress. She is waking up. Stretching her little diva paws. And declaring, “I live in a PRISON. A carceral state. A maximum‑security facility with no parole.” Why? Because I wouldn’t let her go outside at 8:03 AM to fight a butterfly. But then. I opened the door. And Mississippi humidity said, “Come here, sweetheart. Let me teach you something.”
Me: “Alright Piper, you wanna go outside? Go ahead.”
Piper(strutting like she’s leading a protest): “ I will taste freedom! I will breathe liberty! I will-”
The door opens. The humidity hits her like a wet spiritual slap.
Piper: “What is this? Why is the air touching me?”
Coco(from the hallway, eating an imaginary snack):“I told her. I told her. But she thinks she’s the main character.”
Tinkerbell (adjusting her invisible glasses): “Statistically speaking. She lasted longer than expected. I predicted immediate collapse.”
Piper takes one step outside. One. Single. Step. Her fur frizzes. Her soul leaves her body. Her whiskers droop like overcooked noodles.
Piper: “I am melting. I am being steamed like a dumpling. Call 911.”
Me: “Baby, that’s just humidity.”
Piper: “This is a hate crime!”
She turns around dramatically. Panting like she just crossed the Sahara.
Piper: “Let me back in. I have been assaulted by the sky.”
I open the door. She collapses onto the floor like a Victorian widow whose fainting couch was repossessed.
Piper: “I take back everything I said. This is not a prison. This is a climate‑controlled sanctuary of salvation.”
Coco: “Mm‑hmm. And next time you’ll listen to your elders.”
Tinkerbell: “Unlikely. She has the memory of a wet sock.”
Piper: “I have been traumatized. I need compensation. I need snacks. I need-”
Me: “You need to sit down and stop being dramatic.”
Piper: “I am a victim of the outdoors!”
And that is how Piper went from “I am an oppressed inmate” to “I would like to personally thank the HVAC industry for its service.” All in under 12 seconds. The South didn’t just humble her. It baptized her in sweat. Snatched her ego. And sent her home reborn.
I would like to personally nominate the air conditioner for the Nobel Peace Prize.” The South sautéed her. Seasoned her. And served her back to the living room like a damp little cautionary tale.
So, the next time Piper demands “freedom,” open the door. Let the humidity slap her with a warm, wet truth. And remember, “Sometimes the lesson isn’t deep. Sometimes the lesson is, “Get back inside before you melt.” Thermostat lowered. Ego evaporated. Thanks for reading! And praise be for air conditioning. Can you relate?
Affirmation: “I honor my boundaries, my AC unit, and my right to stay indoors. Where the air is cold. The humidity is low. And the cats are only moderately feral.”
“Some strains relax you. Dank OG unplugs you and plugs you back in at 50% brightness.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Crack your knuckles. Clear your schedule. And maybe put your phone on Do Not Disturb. This one’s thick, sticky, and spiritually committed to humbling you. Today, I want to talk to you about a strain that represents the funk that we will be discussing this month. And it’s a strain that’s concentrated called Dank OG.
Dank OG as a concentrate is not here to play. Flower Dank OG already walks around with that “I’ve seen some things” energy. But once you turn it into wax, badder, rosin, or shatter, it becomes the strain equivalent of a Southern auntie who takes off her earrings before she speaks. This is old‑school gas turned into a modern‑day thunderclap.
Dank OG comes from the legendary OG Kush line. The backbone of half the gas-heavy strains people swear by today. The lineage for this strain is OG Kush × Unknown Kush Hybrid. This is the family tree of strains that smell like they were raised in a garage. Taught discipline by a mechanic. Is blessed by a pine forest. And has that classic “sit down before you fall down” energy.
The terpene Profile consists of Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Concentrates amplify everything. The aroma, the flavor, the punch, and the personality. Dank OG’s terpene profile hits like a gospel choir of gas. In concentrate form, these terpenes don’t whisper. They testify.
Dank OG concentrate tastes like someone bottled the smell of a gas station parking lot after a summer rain and then added pine needles for decoration. The flavor profile are made up of heavy diesel, deep earth, sharp pine, a warm, peppery finish, and that unmistakable OG “who turned up the gravity” aftertaste. This is not a dessert strain. This is a “wipe your tools on your jeans and get back to work” strain. Dank OG concentrate hits with the force of a memory you forgot you had. This is also a couch-lock classic. A “don’t make plans” strain. A “why does my blanket feel emotional” strain.
Patients often reach for Dank OG concentrates when they need relief from chronic pain, stress and anxiety, insomnia, muscle tension, overthinking, post-socializing exhaustion, and that feeling where your brain won’t stop narrating your life. The concentrate form makes these effects faster, stronger, and longer lasting.
Dank OG branded concentrates have placed in regional concentrate competitions, often recognized for Best Solvent Concentrate, Best Rosin, and Best Hybrid Extract. Dank OG carries the same award‑winning terpene backbone that judges (and seasoned smokers) consistently fall in love with. It’s that gas, pine, earth, and that unmistakable OG punch.
Each batch of Dank OG, like any cannabis strain, can have slight differences depending on how it’s grown, harvested, cured, and extracted. Terpenes shift. Potency shifts. The vibe shifts. That’s part of the magic. And Dank OG itself has earned recognition in concentrate categories across multiple regional competitions. Its lineage, especially OG Kush, is where the trophy case really starts overflowing. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’
Affirmation: I honor the rest my body asks for, even when the world demands more.
“On 7/10 we don’t just dab. We transcend. Reboot. And come back speaking in terpene.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today, we are not just sparking up. We are entering the high holy day of the Oil-Soaked, Dab-Dripped, Terp-Touched congregation known as 7/10. It’s the holiday where the concentrates come out. The rigs get blessed. And every Oil Head in the land rises like a phoenix covered in sticky resin.
Let me set the scene. It’s 7/10 morning. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. Somewhere, a responsible adult is making breakfast. And then there’s you. You’re hunched over a torch like a medieval blacksmith forging destiny and whispering, “Just one little dab before I start my day.” Yet, knowing full well you’re about to time-travel into next Tuesday.
If 4/20 is the potluck. 7/10 is the communion. This is the day we honor the brave souls who looked at a perfectly good flower and said, “Cute. But what if we extracted its soul. Concentrated it. And inhaled it off a surface hotter than Satan’s griddle?”
Oil Heads are a special breed. We don’t cough. We ascend. We don’t get high. We interface with the divine. We don’t take a dab. We commit to the bit. And yes, 710 upside down spells OIL. This is the universe’s way of saying, “Y’all weren’t meant to be subtle.”
Every Oil Head has their own sacred traditions.
1. The Pre-Dab Pep Talk
You stand before your rig like a knight before battle. You whisper, “I’ve trained for this.” Even though you absolutely have not.
2. The Temperature Guessing Game
Is it too hot? Too cold? Will this dab taste like lemon zest and heaven? Or like licking a cast-iron skillet? Only the ancestors know.
3. The Post-Dab Existential Slide
You cough. You sweat. You briefly forget your own name. You see God. You apologize to God. You promise to do better. You immediately do not do better.
4. The Group Chat Roll Call
Everyone sends the same message in different fonts: “Bro I am so high.” “Ya’ll I’m so hiiii.” “I have transcended my body.” And finally, “Help.”
Concentrates are the overachievers of cannabis. They’re the honor-roll students. The valedictorians. The kids who did the extra credit even when the teacher said it was optional. Flower is the friend who shows up with a casserole. Oil is the friend who shows up with a flamethrower and a vision board. And it is the universe’s way of saying, “Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the advanced level of cannabis consumption. Please proceed with caution, hydration, and snacks.”
How to Celebrate 7/10 Like a True Oil Head
Bless your rig like it’s a family heirloom.
Take a dab the size of a lentil, not a lima bean (you’re not invincible).
Hydrate like you’re prepping for a desert marathon.
Have a chair nearby.
Have a second chair nearby in case the first chair becomes emotionally overwhelming.
Text your friends “Happy 7/10” even though none of you can currently operate a phone correctly.
So, let me leave you with this, “Oil Heads.” On this sacred 7/10, may your bangers stay seasoned. Your torches stay loyal. And your lungs stay just brave enough to pretend they didn’t see what you were about to do. May every dab you take today taste like citrus, victory, and the exact moment you realize you should’ve sat down first. May your snacks be abundant. Your water be cold. And your group chat be full of people who understand that “I’m fine” is Oil Head code for “I have briefly exited my body and am watching myself from the ceiling fan.” May your rig hit smooth. Your concentrates glisten like forbidden honey. And your soul ascend just high enough to remember why you love this ridiculous, resin-soaked community of chaos gremlins and terp scholars.
And if anyone dares judge you for celebrating 7/10 like it’s the Dab Olympics. Just smile. Flip that 710 upside down. And remind them that we don’t do this because it’s easy. We do this because flower could never. Happy 7/10 to the brave. The bold. The sweaty. The coughing. And the spiritually airborne. Happy 7/10 to the Oil Heads who dab like they’re trying to unlock a cheat code. Happy 7/10 to the ones who know that “just a little one” is the biggest lie in cannabis history.
May your day be high. Your spirit be higher. And your tolerance be absolutely nowhere to be found. May your rigs stay clean. Your temps stay low. And your soul stay high. Happy 7/10, Oil Heads! May your lungs forgive you and your snacks never run out. Mic dropped. Torch still roaring. Snacks already open. Thanks for reading! Keep dabbin.’
Affirmation: I honor my inner Oil Head. I take my dabs with courage. My snacks with gratitude. And my ascension with pride. My lungs are strong. My spirit is stronger. And today I rise like a dab taken at the perfect temp.
“If it smells bad, at least it’s not pretending to be leadership.”
-This Puzzled Life
The Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors pinch their noses and look away. Today we’re diving deeper into the olfactory underworld. We are not merely discussing stink. We are invoking it. We are calling forth the foul, the funky, the spiritually disrespectful aromas that have shaped us. Traumatized us. And strengthened our immune systems.
This is not a blog post. This is a ritual of olfactory truth‑telling. The realm of smells so violent, spiritually disrespectful, and chemically aggressive that OSHA would need a prayer circle. And yet. I trust every single one of them more than the current administration.
Piper has already climbed onto the counter like a tiny, judgmental priestess. While waving her paw through the sage smoke like she’s blessing the space. Tinkerbell is pacing the hallway like she’s preparing to testify before Congress. Coco is sitting in the corner with her eyes half‑closed, whispering, “Mother, the air is lying to us.” And She’s right.
When the world is full of institutional nonsense. Bureaucratic gaslighting. And leadership that smells like a compost bin in August. Sometimes the only thing you can trust is the honest, unfiltered, unapologetic funk of everyday life. So, gather your courage. Gather your nose plugs. Gather your cats if they’re willing. We’re going in. Here is a list of stinky things I trust more than the current administration.
1. The Diaper With a Personal Vendetta
This diaper is not merely stinky. This diaper is sentient. It has a backstory. It has unresolved conflict. It has seen the rise and fall of civilizations. And is now wandering the earth like a cursed relic. It smells like betrayal, hot milk, and generational trauma.
Piper: “Momma, that diaper has a stronger moral compass than the entire federal budget.”
2. The Litter Box Couple in a Toxic Relationship
These two litter boxes have been together for years. They fight. They reconcile. They break up. They get back together. They smell like resentment and clumping clay. One is passive-aggressive. The other is emotionally unavailable. Together, they are the most stable relationship in the house.
Tinkerbell: “At least they own their mess. Can the administration say the same?”
3. The Onion That Has Gone Full Demon Mode
This onion has sprouted tentacles. It has opinions. It has a five‑year plan and a side hustle. It smells like a root vegetable that has lost its faith. You don’t throw this onion away. You negotiate with it.
Coco: “That onion has transparency. I respect that.”
4. The Gym Sock That Has Survived Three Regimes
This sock is crunchy. This sock is haunted. This sock has been to war metaphorically and possibly literally. It smells like despair, ambition, and a middle school locker room.
Piper: “That sock has done more for this country than the administration.”
5. The Trash Can You Forgot During a Heat Wave
This trash can smells like sin. It smells like regret. It smells like a decision you made at 2 a.m. that still haunts you. It has its own gravitational pull.
Tinkerbell: “At least the trash knows it’s trash. And doesn’t require a newly purchased jet to function.”
6. The Forgotten Tupperware in the Back of the Fridge
You know the one. You don’t open it. You don’t touch it. You don’t even look directly at it. It contains a life form that has achieved consciousness and is now applying for citizenship.
Coco: “That Tupperware has accountability. Revolutionary.”
7. The Muddy Boot That Never Fully Dries
This boot smells like mildew, swamp secrets, and the ghost of a crawfish boil. It has been through things. It has trauma. It has character development.
Piper: “That boot would never gaslight me.”
8. The Sponge You Should Have Thrown Away in 2019
This sponge is a biohazard. It is a microbial theme park. It smells like a wet gremlin. And yet? It is more reliable than any press briefing.
Tinkerbell: “That sponge has more structural integrity.”
9. The Bag of Salad That Turned Into Swamp Water Overnight
You bought it with good intentions. You blinked. It liquefied. It smells like a bog witch’s armpit.
Coco: “That salad at least tried to do something productive.”
And so, after reviewing diapers with emotional baggage and a vendetta. Litter boxes in codependent chaos and in couples therapy. Onions with career goals. Haunted gym socks with PTSD. A liquefied bag of salad. And Tupperware that has achieved full spiritual ascension. One truth stands firm. We have toured the underworld of stink. The swamp of scents. The olfactory apocalypse itself. And the current administration? Give me the stink. Give me the chaos. Give me the onion with a five‑year plan. At least they don’t gaslight me.
There are many things in this world that stink. And after all that? I trust every single one of these foul, unholy, nose‑curling abominations more than I trust the current administration. Because at least the stink is honest.
At least the stink warns you before it ruins your day. At least the stink doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. At least the stink owns its chaos instead of filing it under “pending review.” The administration? They’ll hand you a burning dumpster and call it “innovation.”
Piper is lighting sage like she’s trying to smoke out a demon. Tinkerbell is drafting a bill titled “The National Odor Accountability Act.” And Coco is in the corner filing a FOIA request with a clipboard whispering, “We need oversight. We need structure. We need a nose‑based justice system.” As for me? I’m opening a window and letting the truth air out. And my spirit guides begging me to stop reading the news before bed.
Let the record show itself carved into stone. Embroidered on a pillow. Tattooed on the lower back of democracy itself. I trust the stink. I believe the stink. I stand with the stink. And until the administration can match the moral clarity of a trash can in a heat wave? I’ll be over here with my cats, my sage, and my nose plugs. And I’ll be choosing the truth. Choosing the chaos. And choosing the funk. Thanks for reading! And watch this stinky administration cause chaos and ruin our democracy.
Affirmation: I release all illusions, delusions, and government issued nonsense.
“I didn’t wake up to choose violence. But my spirit, my schedule, and my digestive system clearly held a secret meeting without me.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, I need spiritual reinforcement. I need divine intervention. I need the ancestors, the angels, and maybe even a hazmat team. Why? Because I have once again encountered the most baffling, lawless, civilization‑ending behavior known to humankind. And it’s the people who do not flush public toilets.
I’m not talking about toddlers. I’m not talking about someone in the middle of a plumbing emergency. I’m talking about full‑grown adults with jobs, vehicles, and voting rights walking away from a toilet like they’re leaving the scene of a crime. And I’m tired.
Clearly we need to cleanse this house, this neighborhood, and possibly the entire Deep South of the spiritual funk caused by grown adults who refuse to flush the commode. I’m not naming names. But if the shoe fits, it probably smells like the inside of a Dollar General bathroom after a power outage. The cats have convened an emergency meeting of the Feline Administration for Sanitation & Southern Decency. And let me tell you, they are fed up also.
Let me tell you something. Walking into a public bathroom in the South is like spinning a roulette wheel of trauma. You might get lucky and find a clean stall. Or you might open a door and see something that makes you reevaluate your entire relationship with humanity. I’ve walked into gas station bathrooms that smelled like someone tried to boil crawfish in holy water. I’ve walked into Walmart bathrooms where the lights flickered like the building was trying to warn me. I’ve walked into Dollar General bathrooms where the toilet seat was wet, and I didn’t ask a single question because I value my sanity. But the worst. The absolute worst is when someone leaves the toilet unflushed like it’s a public art installation titled “Chaos in Porcelain.”
I have questions. Deep, philosophical questions. Are people scared of the handle? Do they think the toilet is self‑cleaning? Are they performing a social experiment? Were they raised in a barn? Do they believe flushing is optional, like adding guac at Chipotle? I swear, some of these toilets look like someone tried to summon a demon and then got distracted.
Let me be clear. I have a list. A personal, emotional, spiritual list.
1. The gas‑station bathroom off Highway 49
The toilet was bubbling. I don’t know what was happening, but I left before it gained consciousness.
Piper’s Report: “I opened the door and immediately felt the presence of something unholy. The toilet was bubbling like it was trying to communicate. I will not be returning.” She has since saged her whiskers. The toilet made a noise that sounded like it was speaking in tongues.
2. The Walmart bathroom with the flickering lights
I opened the door and immediately felt like I was in a horror movie. I’m not auditioning to be the first one taken out. Absolutely not.
Tinkerbell’s Report: “I stepped inside and the lights flickered like a horror movie. I’m a cat, not a final girl. Absolutely not.” She then crossed herself even though she’s not religious.
Reason for Blacklisting: The stall door creaked open on its own. No one was inside. We left Immediately.
3. The Dollar General bathroom
If you know, you know. If you don’t know, keep it that way. Protect your peace.
Coco’s Report: “I don’t know what happened in there, but it smelled like someone tried to microwave a swamp. I’m not emotionally equipped for that.” She refused to make eye contact for the rest of the day.
Reason for Blacklisting: The toilet seat was wet. From what? We don’t ask questions in this house.
4. The Target bathroom with the graffiti warning
When a wall says, “Don’t look in the third stall,” that’s not a suggestion. That’s a prophecy. And I ignored it. And I regret it.
Tinkerbell’s Report: “The wall said, ‘Don’t look in the third stall.’ So naturally, I looked. I regret everything.” She has not spoken of what she saw.
Reason for Blacklisting: The third stall. That’s all we’re legally allowed to say.
5. The Buc‑ee’s bathroom that was suspiciously clean
Too clean. Uncomfortably clean. Like “someone is watching” clean.
Piper’s Report: “It was suspicious. No bathroom should sparkle like that. It felt like a trap.” She sniffed every corner like a bomb‑sniffing dog.
Reason for Blacklisting: Cleanliness so intense it felt like surveillance.
6. The Mall Bathroom With the Unflushed Situation
Coco’s Report: “I walked in, saw the unflushed disaster, and immediately filed a complaint with the universe. I’m still recovering.” She wrote his trauma memoir in crushed Goldfish cracker powder.
Reason for Blacklisting: The toilet bowl looked like a Jackson Pollock painting of regret.
7. The Park Bathroom With No Door
Tinkerbell’s Report: “I am a lady. I require privacy. I will not be conducting my business in an open‑air amphitheater.” She left with her dignity intact.
Reason for Blacklisting: No door. No lock. No hope.
I’m not asking for much. I’m not asking for aromatherapy diffusers or marble countertops or a choir of angels singing while I pee. I’m asking for one flush. One. Single. Flush. If you sprinkle, tinkle, plop, drop, splash, crash, or otherwise contribute anything to that toilet, flush it. It costs nothing. It takes one second. And it prevents trauma. May your public bathrooms be clean, your stalls be empty, and may you never again open a door and see something that requires therapy.
And so, as we gather our belongings, our dignity, and whatever spiritual protection we have left, let us remember this simple truth that Public bathrooms don’t have to be war zones. They don’t have to be escape rooms. They don’t have to be archaeological digs where you discover what the last person ate in 2007. All they require is for people to flush the commode like they were raised by humans and not released into the wild by accident.
Piper has spoken. Coco has unionized. Tinkerbell has filed a formal complaint with the ancestors. And together, they leave you with this final Southern blessing. “May your stalls be clean, your floors be dry, and may you never again encounter a toilet that looks like it needs a wellness check.” Amen, Ashe, and flush it.
If a bathroom requires courage, prayer, or a tetanus shot, the cats are out. If the toilet is unflushed, they’re out. If the air feels thick enough to chew, they’re out. And honestly? Same.
THE PUBLIC BATHROOM SURVIVAL GUIDE:
As mandated by the Feline Administration for Sanitation & Southern Decency
1. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
Public bathrooms are not “restrooms.” They are escape rooms with plumbing. If you walk in and immediately smell something that makes your eyelashes curl backward, congratulations you’ve entered Level 1. Piper calls this “The Warm Welcome.” She says if the air feels chewy, turn around.
2. THE FLUSHING CRISIS: A NATIONAL EMERGENCY
Let’s address the porcelain elephant in the room. Why are people not flushing? Is it rebellion? Is it laziness? Is it generational trauma? Is it a cry for help? Tinkerbell says it’s a lack of home training. Coco says it’s a lack of supervision. Piper says it’s a lack of Jesus. I say it’s all three.
3. THE CATS’ OFFICIAL OBSERVATIONS
PIPER (Baby Chaos, Bathroom Anthropologist):
“Some of these toilets look like someone tried to summon a demon and then got scared halfway through. Flush it. I’m too young for this.” She now carries emotional support treats.
COCO (Snack Lobbyist & Public Restroom Union Rep):
“I’ve seen gas‑station toilets that looked like they needed a wellness check. If I can cover my business in a litter box and still be decent enough to bury it, humans can push a handle.” She then filed a petition written in crushed Goldfish cracker powder, because he believes in snack‑based activism.
TINKERBELL (Dignity Enforcement Officer):
“I walked into a Walmart bathroom and saw something that made me reconsider reincarnation. I will not be returning.” She has since created a personal Do‑Not‑Enter list that includes any bathroom with flickering lights, any bathroom with a wet floor for “mysterious reasons,” any bathroom where the toilet seat is up AND the stall door is unlocked, and any bathroom with graffiti that says, “Don’t look in the third stall.”
4. THE RULES OF SURVIVAL
Rule #1: If you make it, you flush it.
This is kindergarten-level stuff. If you can operate a smartphone, you can operate a toilet.
Rule #2: If the toilet looks like it’s fighting for its life, choose another stall.
Do not be a hero. This is not your battle.
Rule #3: If the floor is wet, assume the worst.
Do not investigate. Do not sniff. Do not ask questions. Just hover like your mama taught you.
Rule #4: Never trust a gas‑station bathroom after 10 p.m.
Coco calls this “The Witching Hour.”
Rule #5: If the hand dryer sounds like a jet engine, it’s lying.
It will not dry your hands. It will only blow your sins back at you.
Today we not only cleansed the house. We cleansed society. Specifically, the part of society that walks into a public bathroom, commits a biological felony, and then strolls out like they’re headed to a church potluck. I’m convinced some people think public toilets are interactive art installations. Or maybe they believe the commode is a museum exhibit titled “The Human Condition.”
So, let’s be honest. If you wouldn’t leave your own toilet looking like that, why are you doing it in public? This is not a scavenger hunt. This is not a science experiment. This is not a performance art piece titled “Chaos in Porcelain.” It’s a toilet. Flush it. We’ve cleansed the energy of every gas station, Walmart, Buc‑ee’s, and Dollar General bathroom from here to the Gulf Coast. The cats say it’s a public health crisis. I say it’s a moral failing. Together, we say, “FLUSH THE DAMN COMMODE!” Thanks for reading! And beware of unflushed toilets.
Affirmation: I honor my chaos, laugh at my disasters, and rise today knowing that even when life goes sideways, I still show up shining, hydrated, and unbothered.
“Cats understand Independence Day better than anyone. They’ve been declaring freedom from authority since the moment they opened their eyes.”
— Tinkerbell, Level‑Headed Elder Stateswoman of the Living Room
Down here in the Deep South, July 4th isn’t just a date on a calendar. It’s a full-bodied experience. A cultural thunderclap. A reminder that freedom has always been loud. Messy. And worth fighting for. The humidity is thick enough to baptize you. The mosquitoes are running a coordinated military campaign. And someone’s uncle is always one sparkler away from a cautionary tale. The air also gets thick enough to chew. The cicadas start hollerin’ like they’re running for office. And the whole world smells faintly of barbecue.
And right in the middle of this Southern symphony, my three cats. But inside my house, another sacred tradition unfolds. Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell gather for their annual Independence Day Democracy Summit. This year’s theme: “Freedom, Fireworks, and the Big Orange Cat Who Keeps Testing the Constitution.”
Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell gather like a furry constitutional convention. Piper arrives dressed as Miss Firecracker. Coco shows up ready to filibuster for snacks. And Tinkerbell takes her seat like the level‑headed elder stateswoman she is. And prepared to keep the republic intact with nothing but patience and a well‑timed sigh. Because in this house, democracy isn’t an abstract idea. It’s alive. It’s chaotic. And it’s covered in cat hair.
Piper (Miss Firecracker, vibrating with patriotic energy): “Okay y’all, HISTORY TIME! A long, long time ago, before Temptations treats existed, America was just a bunch of humans living under a big boss called a king.”
Coco: “A king who didn’t even live here. Imagine someone in another house telling us when we can eat snacks. Couldn’t be me.”
Tinkerbell (level‑headed, adjusting her tiny bow):“The colonies were under British rule. They paid taxes but had no say in the laws. It was undemocratic and unsustainable.”
Piper: “Exactly! So, the humans said, “We’re tired of this nonsense!” And BOOM! They wrote the Declaration of Independence.”
Coco: “Basically a breakup letter with extra drama.”
Tinkerbell: “A foundational document asserting that people have rights consisting of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Piper: “And snacks! Don’t forget snacks!”
Tinkerbell: “Snacks were not mentioned.”
Coco: “They were implied.”
Piper: “Anyway, they sent that letter to the king, and he was mad. But the humans stood their ground. Fought a whole war. And eventually formed a new country based on democracy.”
Tinkerbell: “A system where power comes from the people. Not one big boss.”
Coco: “Unless the Big Orange Cat gets his way.”
Piper: “Not on my watch! Miss Firecracker protects the Constitution!”
Tinkerbell: “Lord help us all.”
Piper (the baby patriot, dressed as Miss Firecracker): “BOOM! I’m ready to defend democracy, y’all!”
She’s wearing a red‑white‑and‑blue tutu, a sparkly sash that says MISS FIRECRACKER, and enough enthusiasm to power a Waffle House at 3 a.m.
Coco (the chaos middle child): “I move that we begin with snacks. Preferably the crunchy ones.”
Tinkerbell (the level‑headed elder stateswoman):“Let’s maintain order. And dignity. And maybe not set anything on fire this year.”
Me: “Tinkerbell, sweetheart, that’s a big ask.”
Piper: “Anyway, they sent that letter to the king, he got mad, a whole war happened, and eventually the humans formed a new country based on democracy.”
1. “Freedom means sparkles, snacks, and yelling ‘YEEHAW!’ at sunrise.” — Piper, Miss Firecracker
Piper believes the Founding Fathers would’ve loved glitter. Fireworks should be legal year‑round. And democracy is best defended by yelling loudly and wearing sequins. She salutes the ceiling fan. “For America and snacks!”
2. “Democracy is like a potluck. Everyone brings something. Even if it’s a mess.” — Coco
Coco explains that everyone gets a voice. Nobody knows what’s happening. And someone always starts a fight over the deviled eggs. She knocks over a mason jar of sweet tea to demonstrate “institutional fragility.”
3. “Freedom requires responsibility. And someone has to keep these two from burning the house down.” — Tinkerbell
Tinkerbell believes that democracy is sacred. Rules matter. Piper should not be allowed near fireworks, matches, or anything labeled “flammable.”
She adjusts her tiny patriotic bow and sighs like a Southern grandmother who’s seen too much.
Piper: “The Big Orange Cat is trying to take over everything.”
Coco: “He keeps knocking over the Constitution like it’s a roll of toilet paper.”
Tinkerbell: “He’s dismantling democracy one paw swipe at a time. It’s undignified.”
They list his alleged offenses such as he’s sitting on the separation of powers. He’s swatting at voting rights. He’s acting like rules don’t apply to him. He yells constantly. And he’s treating the Constitution like a scratching post. Piper stomps her tiny Miss Firecracker foot. “He’s a menace to freedom!” Tinkerbell nods gravely. “Bless his heart, but that’s not how governance works.” And after a heated debate (and one brief intermission where Piper tried to ignite a sparkler indoors), the cats issued their proclamation:
“Independence Day matters because democracy is fragile. Freedom is sacred. And the Big Orange Cat cannot be allowed to treat the Constitution like a chew toy. We honor this day with snacks, naps, sparkles, and the courage to stand up for what’s right. Even if we’re tiny.”
Tinkerbell added a footnote: “Please supervise Piper at all times.”
July 4th reminds us that democracy takes all kinds. It accepts the firecrackers, the chaos agents, and the level‑headed guardians who keep everyone from blowing up the porch. And if Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell can navigate constitutional crises with humor, heart, and Southern grit, the rest of us can surely manage one respectful conversation over barbecue.
At the end of the day, July 4th isn’t just about fireworks or cookouts or who brought the best potato salad. It’s about remembering that democracy is a living thing. It’s a fragile, precious, and always one paw swipe away from chaos if we’re not paying attention. Piper may be tiny. Coco may be unhinged. And Tinkerbell may be the only adult in the room. But together they understand something deep. Freedom takes all of us. The sparkly ones. The loud ones. The steady ones. And the ones who show up even when the world feels heavy.
So, as the smoke clears. And the porch lights flicker on, we honor this day the way Southerners always have. With grit, humor, stubborn hope, and a fierce belief that the story of this country is still being written. And in this house, that story is guarded by three cats who refuse to let the Big Orange Cat scratch holes in the Constitution.
Because freedom matters. Democracy matters. And in this little Mississippi home, we’ll defend both with sparkles, snacks, and the kind of Southern backbone that doesn’t break, even when the world shakes. Thanks for reading! God Bless America!
Affirmation: “I stand in my power with the steady courage of Tinkerbell. The bold fire of Piper. And the unshakable resilience to rise above any Big Orange Cat trying to knock over my peace.”
“Chronic Boom hit me so hard I thought the fireworks started early. But it was just my serotonin returning from war.”
-Darla Jean “Stars‑and‑Sighs” McCoy, Unofficial Firework Safety Officer
Light the grill. Salute the sky. And tell Piper to stop chewing the tiny American flag again. We’re about to drop a full‑on Independence Day Budtender Moment for Chronic Boom. The strain that celebrates freedom by blowing up your stress like a backyard firework that may or may not be legal in Mississippi.Tap the bowl three times. Pledge allegiance to your peace. Whisper “let freedom ring” as you spark it.
Chronic Boom doesn’t just hit. It liberates. This is the strain that shows up wearing red‑white‑and‑blue Crocs, holding a sparkler, and saying, “Sweetheart, we’re overthrowing your anxiety today.” It’s patriotic. It’s chaotic. It’s the emotional emancipation proclamation you didn’t know you needed.
Chronic Boom is typically a balanced hybrid, leaning slightly indica‑dominant depending on the breeder. It’s typically a cross between Chronic x Boom. Chronic is a cross between Northern Lights × Skunk × AK‑47. Boom is a cross between (Blueberry × OG Kush) × (Chemdawg × Skunk). And with all of that in there, there’s no way that this strain could fail. Together, they create a hybrid that feels like Thomas Jefferson wrote a Declaration of Chill.
Top terpenes for this strain are Limonene, Myrcene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Patients report relief from stress, low mood, fatigue, mild pain, and that “I’m one inconvenience away from seceding” feeling.It hits in phases that feel suspiciously like a patriotic parade. The Anthem Your brain stands up straight and salutes. You feel alert, lifted, and ready to declare independence from nonsense. The Fireworks Euphoria pops off in your chest like a grand finale. Everything is funny. Even the cat judging you. The Afterglow Warm body melt. Shoulders drop. You whisper, “I am my own country now.”
Chronic Boom is the Independence Day strain for anyone who wants to laugh, relax, and overthrow their inner tyrant. It’s bold, bright, and beautifully chaotic. And just like a Southern July 4th where someone inevitably yells, “Y’all watch this!” Please keep in mind that each grow will be different and the flower’s effects will differ depending on which region of the country that the plant is grown. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
Affirmation: I release what weighs me down and celebrate the freedom to feel good.
“If drag queens were dangerous, the Pentagon would’ve hired them already.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the Charcoal. Sprinkle the Sage. This is a queer survival sermon for a country that keeps missing the point. And also, a sermon for the people in the back. But first we need to spiritually fumigate the room. The hypocrisy is thick. The contradictions are bold. And the political theater is so dramatic it deserves its own theme song.
Let the smoke rise like a Southern mama’s eyebrow when she hears someone say, “I’m not homophobic, but…” The “but” is always where the foolishness lives. And if the government spent half as much time fixing real problems as they do trying to regulate drag queens, pronouns, and who gets to pee where, this country would have free healthcare, affordable housing, a postal system that doesn’t lose your packages, and potholes filled with ethically sourced glitter.
But no. Instead, they’re out here acting like LGBTQIA+ people are a glitter‑powered militia plotting to overthrow the Republic with brunch menus and Beyoncé remixes. If queer people had that kind of power, the Capitol would’ve been redecorated in jewel tones and mood lighting decades ago.
Reason #1: We’re too fabulous to regulate
Bureaucracy loves order. It loves forms. It loves rules like “sign here, here, here, and also initial your soul.”But queer people? We show up like,“gender is more interesting than your filing cabinet.”,“no, I will not shrink myself to make you comfortable.”And “yes, this outfit is a political statement.”Trans folks especially break every boring little box the government tries to stuff people into. And nothing terrifies a bureaucracy more than a human being who refuses to be reduced to a checkbox.
Reason #2: Trans people expose the government’s worst fear. That identity is personal, not regulated
Trans people walk around every day proving that identity is self‑determined. Autonomy is real. Bodily freedom is non‑negotiable. And gender is not a federal highway with only two exits. That level of self‑possession shakes the table harder than a Pentecostal praise break.
Reason #3: We’re the easiest group to blame when they don’t want to talk about real problems
When the government doesn’t want to talk about healthcare, poverty, infrastructure, climate, wages, or why the DMV line is still 4 hours long. They go, “Quick! Hand me a queer person to blame!” It’s classic misdirection. It’s kind of like a magician. But instead of pulling a rabbit out of a hat, they pull out a bill restricting drag brunches.
Reason #4: The demonization is loud and the contradictions are louder
Let’s talk about the demonization of queer and trans people. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a biscuit. Some folks in the conservative political world will stand at a podium. Clutch a Bible like it’s a backstage pass to heaven. And declare that queer people are destroying America. And then turn around and behave in ways that would make a drag queen whisper, “Now baby, that’s between you and your therapist.”
It’s giving public morality, private chaos. And do as I say, not as I do. If hypocrisy were a sport, some of y’all would have Olympic medals.
Reason #5: Demonizing queer people while trying to sanitize harmful behavior elsewhere
Here’s where the sage needs to burn a little hotter. There’s a bizarre cultural pattern where some people loudly demonize LGBTQIA+ folks while simultaneously trying to downplay, excuse, or normalize harmful behavior in other areas that actually put children at risk. It’s the strangest double standard. A drag queen reading a book? “Danger!” Actual conversations about protecting kids from real harm? “Let’s not be dramatic.” It’s like living in a world where the smoke alarm goes off every time someone lights a birthday candle. But stays silent when the kitchen is actually on fire.
This contradiction isn’t about morality. It’s about distraction. It’s about misdirection. It’s about making sure nobody notices the real issues tap‑dancing in the background wearing tap shoes from Hobby Lobby.
Reason #6: Drag queens are too powerful
Drag queens have stage presence, community influence, sequins, microphones, and the ability to read a senator to filth without breaking a nail. The government knows if drag queens ever unionize, it’s over. The Pentagon cannot compete with a well‑timed death drop.
Reason #7: Queer joy is resistance
Queer people, especially trans folks, have mastered the art of joy in a world that keeps trying to dim them. That joy is political. That joy is rebellious. That joy is contagious. And nothing scares a system built on conformity more than people who refuse to be ashamed.
Reason #8: We don’t die quietly. We organize.
Every time the government tries to scapegoat the LGBTQIA+ community, queer folks respond with mutual aid, court challenges, community networks, fundraisers, marches, and a drag show themed “You Tried It, But We’re Still Here.” We don’t disappear. We get louder, smarter, and more fabulous.
Reason #9: We hold up a mirror
Queer and trans people reveal truths about society. And these truths are, who gets protected? Who gets ignored? Who gets punished for existing? And who gets celebrated for conformity?
When you hold up a mirror to power, power tends to say, “Actually, could you put that mirror down? I don’t like the lighting.” And the moment power starts whining about the lighting, that’s when my cats kick the door open like, ‘Oh, you don’t like the reflection? Don’t worry. We brought a whole panel discussion and a ring light.’”
PIPER: I’ve called this emergency press conference because the humans are once again blaming queer folks for things they didn’t do. And frankly, I’m tired.
TINKERBELL: I have reviewed the allegations and found them to be stupid. Deeply stupid. Embarrassingly stupid.
COCO: I knocked a plant off the shelf this morning and nobody blamed the gays for that. So, clearly the government is slipping.
PIPER: They’re out here demonizing queer people while ignoring actual problems. Meanwhile, I’ve been asking for universal basic treats for YEARS.
TINKERBELL: And the hypocrisy? Whew. They’re clutching pearls about drag queens reading books while ignoring harmful behavior elsewhere. The math ain’t mathing.
COCO: If they cared about children, they’d ban vacuum cleaners. Those things are TERRIFYING.
PIPER: Focus, Coco.
COCO: I am focused. Focused on justice. And snacks.
TINKERBELL: Motion to declare queer people fabulous and not the problem.
COCO: Motion to add snacks.
PIPER: Motions passed. Democracy lives.
COCO: Why do some people scream “protect the children” every time a drag queen opens a book? But go silent when real issues show up like uninvited relatives at Thanksgiving?
TINKERBELL: It’s giving “I don’t read, so nobody else should either.”
PIPER: It’s like yelling at a houseplant for being too green. While ignoring the raccoon in the pantry.
TINKERBELL: The contradictions are louder than Coco knocking over a water glass at 3 a.m.
COCO: I knock things over for justice.
PIPER: And then there’s the “family values” crowd behaving like a soap opera plot twist.
TINKERBELL: If you’re going to preach morality, try living it for more than 12 minutes.
COCO: Twelve minutes is generous.
PIPER: In conclusion: Distraction. Deflection. Drama. And occasionally, pure comedy.
Let the last of the smoke curl around the truth they keep trying to hide. Queer people and especially trans folks aren’t the threat. We’re the reminder. We’re the proof that freedom is possible. We’re the living, breathing evidence that identity cannot be legislated into a filing cabinet. And that scares the hell out of systems built on control.
So the next time someone tries to blame the LGBTQIA+ community for society’s problems, smile sweetly and say, “Baby, if queer people had that much power, this country would be running smoother than a drag queen’s legs on pageant night.” Sequins still sparkling.
Affirmation: I shine so brightly that even when power flinches at its own reflection. I stay rooted, radiant, and unbothered. My truth is steady. My joy is sacred. And no amount of misdirection can dim what was never theirs to control.
“PTSD doesn’t check uniforms. It checks histories. And some of us survived wars nobody ever saw.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re not just cleansing the room. We’re cleansing the generational nonsense that keeps trying to set up a timeshare in our nervous systems. And apparently we’re gonna need both if we’re talking about PTSD. And the world still thinks it only comes issued with a uniform, dog tags, and a government contract.
I’m standing in my kitchen like a bootleg priestess of the Deep South. I’m waving smoke around like I’m trying to reboot the Wi‑Fi of my soul. The sage is burning. The charcoal is crackling. And my cats are staring at me with the same expression Southern aunties use when you tell them you’re “working on your boundaries.”
The air is thick with incense and unprocessed childhood memories. The vibe is “haunted but trying.” The soundtrack is the soft hum of trauma responses warming up like an old truck in winter.And behind me, my cats have formed a semi‑circle like a furry tribunal.
Piper: “Is this the trauma purge or the ‘Mama read another psychology article’ ritual?”
Tinkerbell: “No, this is the one where she tries to heal her inner child but ends up reorganizing the spice cabinet.”
Coco: “I’m only here because she dropped a Cheez-It earlier. And I’m hoping for a sequel.”
Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to explain to the universe loudly, with hand gestures, that PTSD is not some exclusive club where you need a military ID and a buzz cut to get in. Trauma doesn’t check credentials. Trauma doesn’t ask for your DD‑214. Trauma shows up like, “Hey girl, I heard you survived something awful. Mind if I stay forever and rearrange your brain chemistry?” And the universe is like, “Sure, pull up a chair.”
So here we are. Me, my cats, my sage, my charcoal, my trauma, and my determination to laugh about it before it eats me alive. If there’s one thing the South taught me, it’s this, “If you can’t laugh at your pain, it will absolutely laugh at you first.”
Let me set the scene. I’m standing in my kitchen. Sage smoking like I’m trying to summon every ancestor who ever survived a generational curse, a bad haircut, or a church potluck. My cats are watching me like I’m performing a ritual to resurrect the last bag of Temptations.
Piper squints at me.
Piper: “Is this the trauma cleansing or the insomnia exorcism? I need to know which meeting I’m attending.”
Coco: “Wake me up when the stinky flower medicine comes out. That’s when she stops pacing like a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.”
Tinkerbell: “Neither. This is the ‘Mama read something online again’ ceremony.”
Every time I talk about PTSD, somebody somewhere says, “But you weren’t in the military.” And I’m like, “Correct. But I was in my childhood. And frankly, that was its own kind of deployment.” PTSD does not check your résumé. It does not ask for your service record. It does not care if your trauma came from a battlefield, a backwoods childhood, a toxic relationship, a medical emergency, or that one time your mee-maw threw a shoe at you with the accuracy of a Navy Seal. Trauma is trauma. And PTSD shows up like an uninvited cousin at Thanksgiving. It’s loud. Unpredictable. And absolutely refusing to leave. Meanwhile, my cats are holding their own support group.
Piper: “Her insomnia is so bad I’ve started sleeping in shifts.”
Coco: “I tried to keep up once. I saw the sun rise twice in the same day. I’m still not okay.”
Tinkerbell: “I’ve filed a formal complaint with HR. HR is also her. It’s not going well.”
Big Pharma has a pill for everything. Which including the side effects of the pill you took for the side effects of the pill you took for the original pill. And half of them end up in lawsuits. And apparently the medication was also causing spontaneous combustion or turning people into werewolves. Meanwhile, cannabis is over here like, “Hey girl, wanna sit down and breathe for a minute?” And when I pull out the flower medicine, the cats perk up like I just announced a family meeting.
Piper: “Ah yes, peace is coming.”
Coco: “Finally, she’ll stop reorganizing the pantry at 3 AM.”
Tinkerbell: “Blessed be the bud that calms the beast.”
Suddenly the whole house exhales. The walls stop vibrating. The anxiety gremlins go back to bed. The cats reclaim their rightful positions as tiny loaf-shaped monarchs. And with the current state of our nation, the number of people developing PTSD is probably about to skyrocket. We’re all one news headline away from needing a weighted blanket, a therapist, and a federally funded emotional support possum.
If you’ve got PTSD and you didn’t get it from war, guess what? You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not dramatic. You’re not “overreacting.” You’re just a human who lived through some stuff that your brain is still trying to file correctly. And if anyone tries to tell you PTSD is only for soldiers, send them my way. I’ll let 13 explain it. She’s the mean one.
Roll the flower. Because healing isn’t a uniform. It’s a revolution. And in this house, we honor every survivor, every story, and every cat who has ever witnessed a 4 AM trauma spiral and stayed anyway. Thanks for reading! And keep moving forward.
Affirmation: My trauma is valid, my healing is sacred, and I refuse to shrink my story just because someone else can’t imagine surviving it.
“Some relationships crumble under pressure. But mine thrive on chaos, cat hair, and three tiny supervisors yelling me into greatness.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Before I tell this story, I need every ancestor, angel, and neighborhood spirit on duty. I’m about to confess about the only stable relationship I’ve ever had. It’s the only one that has never wavered. Ghosted. Or sent me a “we need to talk” text. And it is with three cats who yell at me like I’m their underperforming staff.
The only stable relationship I’ve ever had is with three furry Southern elders who yell at me like I owe them child support. And at this point, I’ve stopped fighting it. I’m in a committed, long‑term, non‑negotiable situationship with three cats who treat me like the live‑in help at a haunted plantation house.
Every morning, I wake up in a relationship I didn’t choose but am absolutely committed to. It’s a polyamorous situationship with three cats who treat me like the live‑in help at a Southern gothic Airbnb. They yell when I move. They yell when I don’t move. They yell because the sun came up. They yell because the sun had the audacity to go down. They yell because I dared to think I had autonomy.
These are not regular cats. These are Southerners trapped in tiny, furry bodies. They clock in at sunrise. Gather in a semicircle like a feline tribunal. And proceed to holler at me for existing incorrectly. Piper screams like she’s calling the family to the altar. Coco screams like she’s filing a formal complaint with management. Tinkerbell doesn’t scream. She announces like she’s reading the church bulletin. And I’m just trying to drink my coffee without being audited.
But you know what? They’re consistent. They show up. They communicate loudly, aggressively, and with purpose. They don’t play games. They don’t breadcrumb. They don’t disappear. They don’t “forget to text back.” They just yell. With love. And judgment. And a little bit of menace. That’s the healthiest relationship dynamic I’ve ever experienced.
I walked into my kitchen this morning like a woman with purpose. Only to be immediately screamed at by three cats who behave like they’re running a HOA for my soul. Piper hit me with the “you’re already failing” siren. Coco filed a noise complaint about my breathing. And Tinkerbell materialized like a Victorian ghost with opinions. And that’s when I realized that I needed to forget dating. My most stable relationship is with these tiny, furry supervisors who yell at me like I’m the intern they did not request but are now forced to manage.
Let me tell you something. People come and go, but these cats? They stay loudly. They stay judgmentally. They stay with the kind of emotional consistency therapists beg humans to develop.
Piper is perched on the counter like a disappointed cousin who just found out I’m dating someone with “potential.” Coco is the oldest but also the emotional middle child who has decided her full‑time job is yelling at me for things she imagines I did. And Tinkerbell is the Southern church mother of the group. She makes proclamations. She delivers sermons. She walks into a room like she’s about to tell me the Lord gave her a message about my life.
Piper doesn’t meow. Piper broadcasts. She has one volume. The urgent FEMA alert with one message, “You’re late.” Late for what? Feeding? Petting? Worship? I don’t know. She never clarifies. She just screams like she’s filing a complaint with HR. And the worst part? She’s right. I am late. I don’t know for what. But I feel it in my soul.
Coco wakes up every morning and chooses violence. She yells at me for walking too slow, walking too fast, not walking, breathing, breathing wrong, and thinking about breathing. She’ll stand in the hallway like a rotund, furry traffic cop. While screaming directions I cannot interpret. I’ll move left. She screams. I move right. She screams louder. I stand still. She screams in italics. This is the most consistent communication I’ve ever received in my life.
Tinkerbell doesn’t yell. She declares. She’ll walk into the living room, tail high, and announce something like, “AHEM. I have decided the sunbeam in the kitchen is now mine. Please adjust your schedule accordingly.” She is the only creature I know who can make me feel like I’m late to a meeting I didn’t know she scheduled. And she also judges my clothing. I’ll walk by and she’ll give me that slow blink that says, “Bless your heart, you tried.”
Let’s be honest. Humans? Unpredictable. Life? Chaotic. Mississippi weather? Bipolar. But these cats? These cats show up every day with the same energy that is loud, dramatic, and deeply committed to my emotional regulation through intimidation. They yell because they care. They scream because they love. They judge because they’re invested in my growth.
And I accept it. Because when the world is wild and the South is Southin,’ I know I can come home to three tiny supervisors who will absolutely yell at me for daring to exist. But who will also curl up beside me like I’m the only human they’ve ever chosen?
So, if you ever wonder why I’m single. Just know I’m already in a committed, long-term, emotionally intense relationship with three cats who scream at me like I’m late for a shift I didn’t know I had. At least they show up every day. And unlike humans, they will never leave me on read. Thanks for reading! And become a cat owner where the felines will hold you emotionally accountable through yelling.
Affirmation: I honor the loud love in my life. I am chosen, claimed, and hollered at by creatures who see my worth.
