Anxiety

darnold1975

Insomnia Awareness Day: Because Apparently My Thoughts Don’t Believe in Bedtime

“Insomnia: because my brain likes to clock in for the night shift without asking me first.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. It’s Insomnia Awareness Day. And my brain decided to celebrate by hosting a 72‑hour rave without my consent. Lord knows my household has been observing this holiday since 1997 without ever being asked. 

I’ve been awake so long I’m starting to see sounds. The refrigerator hum is now a full‑blown gospel choir. The ceiling fan is whispering secrets. And my cats, my emotional support chaos trio, have decided to hold a town hall meeting about my sleep schedule like they’re the HOA of my nervous system. Featuring Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell, who have slept a combined 47 hours today alone.

Before we even get to the cats, let’s talk about insomnia itself. This ancient demon, nocturnal gremlin, is an unpaid internship in suffering. Insomnia is the only condition where you can be exhausted, delirious, emotionally fragile, and spiritually bankrupt. And still your brain says, “Actually, what if we reviewed every mistake you’ve ever made since kindergarten.”

It’s when your body is like, “We are shutting down.” And your brain is like, “But what if we alphabetize our regrets.” Insomnia is when you lie down to sleep and suddenly your nervous system becomes a TED Talk host. “Tonight’s presentation: Why You Should’ve Said Something Different in That 2011 Argument.”

Insomnia is when you try every trick in the book that includes tea, meditation, breathing exercises, counting sheep. Where the sheep unionize. Demand better working conditions. And then proceed to walk out. It’s when you’re so tired you start negotiating with inanimate objects. “Please, bed. I’m begging you. I’ll flip the mattress. I’ll buy you new sheets. I’ll stop eating crackers in you. Just please.”

Insomnia is when you finally drift off and your brain slams the panic button like: “Wait. Did you pay that bill?” And then, just when you think you might actually fall asleep, your cats, the furry little sleep Olympians, decide to hold a midnight performance of Stomp on your ribcage. Which now brings us to the household council meeting. Check this out.

Me: “I haven’t slept in three days. I think my soul is vibrating.”

Tinkerbell: “Well maybe if you didn’t drink coffee at 9 PM like you’re cramming for finals at DeVry University.”

Piper: “I tried to help. I sat on your chest and purred. That’s medical.”

Coco: “You sat on her airway, Piper. That’s manslaughter.”

Piper: “I was providing weighted blanket therapy.”

Tinkerbell: “Weighted blanket therapy does not involve cutting off oxygen, sweet girl.”

Me: “I just want to sleep. Just a little. A nap. A blink with commitment.”

Coco: “You can’t sleep because your brain is doing that thing where it replays every embarrassing moment you’ve ever had. Like that time, you waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at you.”

Me: “That was 2004.”

Coco: “And yet here we are.”

Piper: “I don’t understand insomnia. I close my eyes and I’m gone. Like a light switch. Like a fainting goat.”

Tinkerbell: “You also fall asleep mid‑sentence. You are not the control group.”

Piper: “One time I fell asleep standing up.”

Coco: “We know. You hit the floor like a sack of wet laundry.”

Me: “Can y’all please help me sleep tonight?”

Tinkerbell: “We tried helping last night. You were finally drifting off and Piper knocked over a lamp.”

Piper: “It was looking at me weird.”

Coco: “Everything looks at you weird. You’re weird.”

Piper: “Thank you.”

Me: “Okay, new plan. Tonight, we’re doing a calming ritual. No chaos. No zoomies. No knocking things off shelves.”

Tinkerbell: “I’ll allow it.”

Coco: “I’ll supervise.”

Piper: “I make no promises.”

And so, on this Insomnia Awareness Day, I honor the sleepless warriors. The restless. The overthinking champions. The midnight snackers and philosophers. The ceiling‑stare champions. And every exhausted soul who has ever whispered, “Why am I awake right now?” 

Let’s be honest. If insomnia had a mascot, it would be me pacing the hallway at 3:17 am wearing mismatched socks. Holding a mug of cold tea. And whisper‑arguing with my own reflection like we’re in a low‑budget daytime drama. If there were merit badges for this condition, I’d have the whole sash that reads, “Overthinking at Bedtime,” “Accidentally Remembered Something Cringe,” “Tried Melatonin and Ended Up Cleaning the Pantry,” and the coveted “Awake for No Damn Reason.” I am the Eagle Scout of insomnia. May your mind quiet. Your body rest. And your cats behave for at least seven consecutive minutes. Because if sleep is a myth, then I am the cryptid. Thanks for reading! Get some rest.

Affirmation: I am a sleep‑deprived deity with the power of ten thousand intrusive thoughts. And I will absolutely thrive today whether I slept or not.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Rainbow Runtz Strain Review

“I’m not lazy. I’m energy‑efficient with a cannabis‑powered operating system.

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that’s perfect for Pride Month. And the name is Rainbow Runtz.

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, we’re talking about Rainbow Runtz, the strain that tastes like candy, smells like peace, and hits like a warm hug from someone who believes in your potential more than you do. This is the weed you pick when you want to feel emotionally moisturized, spiritually aligned, and just high enough to forget why you walked into the kitchen.

Rainbow Runtz comes from two parents who absolutely understood the assignment. Zkittlez is a cross between Grape Ape × Grapefruit × a mysterious third cousin nobody talks about. Do‑Si‑Dos is a cross between Girl Scout Cookies × Face Off OG. Together, they birthed Rainbow Runtz, a strain that tastes like a fruit snack and feels like emotional stability with a side of giggles.

Rainbow Runtz tastes like fruit candy, sweet berries, lavender that went to therapy, a little earthy “I’m still a plant, don’t get it twisted.” It’s dessert. It’s aromatherapy. It’s a mood. The terpene profile for this strain is Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Linalool. This terpene trio is basically the Holy Trinity of “I’m chill now.” Patients report getting relief from stress, anxiety, depression, mild pain, appetite issues, and mood swings. In general, “I need to chill before I say something unprofessional” energy. It’s the emotional support fruit snack of cannabis.

Rainbow Runtz is the strain you grab when you want to feel like a soft, fruity cloud drifting through your responsibilities with grace, humor, and a snack in your hand. It’s sweet, smooth, and it hits like a warm hug from the universe. 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.’ Happy Pride!

Affirmation: “I honor my highest self by staying hydrated, staying lifted, and staying out of unnecessary group chats.”

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Triple Scoop Strain Review

“High? I prefer the term “vertically blessed.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that has one of the most flavorful profiles that I’ve tried thus far. Standby. Because I have a lot of information to cover. And the people in the Pride community who are in throughly relationships, this one’s for you. The name of the strain is Triple Scoop.

Triple Scoop is a 60/40 indica-dominant hybrid strain. It’s lineage is a three way cross between Super Silver Haze x Grape LA x Sorbet. Super Silver Haze is a 3-way cross between Skunk x Northern Lights x Haze. Talk about grassroots genetics. Grape La is a cross between Grapefruit x LA Confidential. Sorbet strains are a cross of 4 sativa strains that are Mexican, Colombian, Thai, and South Indian strains that are not identified. There is also another version that has more of the indica effects are a cross between Gelato #33 x 2 Scoops. From the rip you get the strong taste of fruit. The actual flavor profile is a sweet and creamy vanilla combined with fresh berries and citrus fruit. But I felt like I was full face down in a fruit bowl.

The top terpenes are B-Myrcene, B-Caryophyllene, and Linalool. Patients report relief from stress, anxiety, depression, minor aches and pains, inflammation, nausea, appetite loss, fatigue, and mood swings. The effects are very relaxing. But not too heavy to cause ‘couch lock’ at moderate levels. 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: If my day starts with a wake and bake, it has to be a good day.

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

When ‘Too Much’ Meets ‘Not Enough’: A Survival Guide for the Spirit They Couldn’t Resize

“Let them call you too much. Some people only say that because they’ve never met someone who refuses to live on mute.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Like it’s ready to escort every dusty opinion, every unsolicited critique, and every generational expectation straight out the front door. The moment somebody decides to inform you that you are either “too much” or “not enough,” that’s when the ritual begins. That’s when you cleanse the room. Clear the energy. And prepare yourself for the comedy of errors that is other people trying to regulate a spirit they did not create. And once that sage hits the air? The truth comes out like it’s been waiting backstage with a mic and a spotlight.

You know that moment when your family, your friends, and the entire Southern social order gather around like a committee of porch‑sitting elders. And they proceed to inform you, very gently, very prayerfully, that you are either too much or not enough? That’s the moment you realize you were never the problem. The problem was the committee.

It always starts with someone holding a casserole like it’s a moral authority. They pull you aside and say, “We’re just worried.” Worried about what? Your volume? Your opinions? Your refusal to shrink yourself into a polite, beige, church‑approved silhouette?

They’ll say, “You’re too loud,” “You’re too emotional,” “You’re too confident,” And “You’re too honest.” And then, without even inhaling, they’ll pivot to, “You’re not grateful enough,” “You’re not humble enough,” “You’re not patient enough,” And “You’re not quiet enough.” Am I a Category 5 hurricane or a lukewarm drizzle? I cannot be both the storm and the drought.

There is nothing like being raised in a culture where people will literally say, “Bless your heart,” while handing you a personality correction like it’s a church bulletin. They want you to be authentic, as long as, your authenticity fits inside their emotional carry‑on bag. They’ll warn you “Tone it down,” “Don’t rock the boat,” “Don’t embarrass the family,” and “Don’t say that out loud.” Meanwhile, the family has been embarrassing you since 1986.

One day, you wake up and realize you are not auditioning for the role of “Acceptable Human #3” in someone else’s life. You stop editing your personality for people who don’t even proofread their own lives. You stop shrinking your joy to fit someone else’s comfort zone. You stop apologizing for existing at full wattage. And suddenly the same people who said you were “too much” start whispering, “She’s changed.” No, you haven’t. You just stopped offering the discounted version of yourself.

People call you “too much” when they’ve built their lives around being less. People call you “not enough” when they want you small enough to manage. People call you “intimidating” when they’re used to being unchallenged. People call you “dramatic” when they’re used to you swallowing your feelings like communion wafers. You are not too much. You are not, not enough. You are exactly the right amount for the life you’re meant to live.

Let’s start by rewriting the script. If they say you’re too loud. Maybe they’re too quiet. If they say you’re too emotional. Maybe they’re emotionally constipated. If they say you’re too confident. Maybe they’re allergic to self‑esteem. And if they say you’re too honest. Maybe they’re used to lies dressed as manners. You are not a problem to be solved. You are a whole person with a whole personality or many. And if that rattles the folding chairs at the family reunion, then let them rattle.

The next time somebody tries to hand you a personality correction like it’s a bulletin from the usher board, just smile. Adjust your crown. And keep walking. Because if being fully yourself shakes their table. Flips their pew. And rattles their casserole. Maybe the problem isn’t your volume. Maybe it’s their weak foundation. Opinions are like buttholes. We all have them. And they all stink. Thanks for reading! And keep letting your light shine no matter what they say.

Affirmation: I honor the fullness of who I am. I expand anyway, shine anyway and take up the space my spirit was built for.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Bubba’s Wedding Strain Review

“Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is relax.”

  -Mark Black

Light the sage. Hide the good towels. Something blessed and slightly irresponsible is about to happen. And as a member of the LGBTQ+ community, I love celebrating our right to marry legally. And really, we don’t know how long that will last. Today’s Budtender Moment is dedicated to Bubba’s Wedding.

It’s a strain that feels like somebody spiked the punch bowl with relaxation and then told you to “just vibe, darlin’.” This strain doesn’t walk into the room. It stumbles in, hugs everybody too long, and immediately asks where the food is.

Bubba’s Wedding is an indica-dominant strain. It is a cross between Bubba Kush × Wedding Cake. Bubba Kush is a cross between OG Kush × Unknown Indica. Wedding Cake is a cross between Triangle Kush × Animal Mints. A match made in cannabis heaven and probably officiated by somebody’s cousin who got ordained online at 2 a.m. Together, they create a strain that says, “Sit down, breathe, and don’t start no mess.”

This strain hits like a slow‑motion hug from an uncle who calls you “champ” even if you’re 40. And the effects of this strain are deep relaxation, mood lift, a gentle mental fog that makes everything feel like it has soft edges, and he sudden urge to sit down “just for a second” and wake up 45 minutes later feeling reborn. It’s the perfect strain for when you want to unwind but still maintain enough dignity to answer the door.

Top terpenes in this strain are Myrcene Caryophyllene Limonene, Linalool, and Humulene. Patients report relief from stress, anxiety, pain, sleep support, and emotional recovery after dealing with family group texts. It’s the strain that says, “You’re safe. Drink some water.” And that’s Bubba’s Wedding. The strain that shows up with a casserole, fixes your mood, and then falls asleep on your couch like it pays rent. If this strain had a motto, it would be: “Bubba’s Wedding, cause sometimes you need a break from your own personality.” Now go hydrate, stretch your back, and try not to start any arguments with appliances today.

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 the tension I don’t need and welcome the peace I deserve.

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Rainbow Belts Strain Review

“Some days you don’t need a miracle. You just want a moment that tastes like possibility.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the room shift into that soft, humming frequency where truth tastes a little sweeter and colors feel like they’re leaning in to listen. Today’s strain steps into the circle like it’s wearing a neon tracksuit and a gold chain with its own name on it. The strain is called Rainbow Belts. And it’s the candy‑coated hybrid that doesn’t just hit. It glimmers.

Rainbow Belts is the balanced hybris child of two heavy‑hitters who knew exactly what they were doing. It is a cross between Zkittlez × Moonbow. Zkittlez is a cross between Grape Ape × Grapefruit. Moonbow is a cross between Zkittlez × Do-Si-Dos. This strain is basically the grandbaby of a fruit salad and a cookie jar. A family reunion where everybody smells loud and nobody whispers.

If nostalgia had a flavor wheel, Rainbow Belts would spin it. The flavor profile consists of sweet-tart candy, citrus peel, berry syrup, and a faint herbal finish that reminds you this is still a plant, not a bag of Skittles. The inhale is playful. The exhale is grown. The aftertaste is “I should’ve bought two eighths.”

Rainbow Belts usually expresses a terpene trio that reads like a mood‑stabilizing spell. Top terpenes in this strain are Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Linalool. Depending on the grow, you might also catch a cameo from Humulene or Myrcene. But the core vibe stays sweet, bright, and balanced. Patients report relief with mood elevation, stress relief, mild body comfort, creative spark, and a gentle “reset” effect. It’s the strain you reach for when you want to feel like yourself again. But with better lighting.

Every grower. Every climate. And every curing room leave fingerprints on this strain. In dry, high‑altitude regions, Rainbow Belts leans sharper and more citrus‑forward. In humid Southern climates, she fattens up, gets louder, and leans into her berry side. In cooler coastal grows, the terpene balance shifts toward floral and herbal tones. Same genetics. Different terroir. A reminder that cannabis is a living archive of the land it grows on. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’ What are your comments about this strain?

Affirmation: I honor the colors in my life. Even the ones that arrived before I felt ready for them. I breathe. I soften. I rise.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Hurricane Season: The Cats Declare a State of Emergency

“Down South, the storms are loud. But my cats are louder.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. If we’re going to talk about my cats and hurricane season, we might as well start this story the same way every Southern family meeting starts. With smoke in the air. Humidity thick enough to baptize you against your will. And at least one animal acting like the world is ending before the meteorologists even finish their sentence. And when I light the charcoal, my cats assume I’m performing some ancient Gulf Coast ritual to summon the first named storm of the season. Piper squints at the sky like she’s reading the Book of Revelations. Coco starts reorganizing the pantry like she’s prepping for a Category 12. And Tinkerbell? She faints dramatically onto the welcome mat like a Victorian widow who just heard the barometric pressure drop. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to grill a chicken thigh without being accused of weather witchcraft.

Hurricane season has begun and the cats must now enter their annual state of dramatic overreaction. Down here in Mississippi, we don’t wait for Jim Cantore to show up on the Weather Channel. We wait for Coco to start pacing like she’s the head of FEMA. Piper to start judging the barometric pressure. And Tinkerbell to start packing her emotional support toys like she’s evacuating to Baton Rouge.

Piper acts like she’s the only one in the house with a working weather app. The moment the first tropical depression forms off the coast of Africa, she sits in the window like she’s tracking it with Doppler radar. Tail twitching. Eyes narrowed. Judging the humidity like it personally offended her. If the National Hurricane Center ever needs a sassy, biscuit-making forecaster who communicates exclusively through side-eye, she’s available.

Coco takes hurricane season seriously. She starts reorganizing the pantry like she’s preparing for the apocalypse. She drags bags of treats under the bed “just in case,” and I swear she tried to ration the Temptations last week. She even inspected the generator by sitting on it and refusing to move. She also insists on doing “storm drills,” which is just her sprinting through the house at 3 a.m. like a Category 5 with fur.

Tinkerbell is not built for weather related stress. She is built for naps, snacks, and being carried like a Victorian child with delicate lungs. The moment thunder rolls, she becomes a 6-pound Southern damsel in distress, flopping dramatically across the floor like, “Oh lawd, take me now.” She packs her favorite mouse toy, her blanket, and her attitude, then sits by the door like she’s waiting for the evacuation bus.

Household Preparations (According to the Cats)

  • Secure loose items outside-Piper knocks over every plant on the porch to “test wind resistance.”
  • Check flashlights-Tinkerbell bites them to ensure “structural integrity.”
  • Stock up on essentials-Coco sits in the middle of the grocery bags like she’s guarding the nation’s last supply of Fancy Feast.
  • Review evacuation routes-All three cats run under the bed and refuse to come out, which is exactly where they’ll be if we ever actually need to leave.

When the first tropical storm finally forms, the cats gather like a furry emergency council.

Piper: “This humidity is unacceptable.” 

Coco: “We need to shelter in place. Preferably near the treats.” 

Tinkerbell: “I have fainted. Someone fetch my smelling salts.”

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to close the shutters while yelling, “Y’all, it’s just rain! We live in the Gulf South! This is our personality trait!” But no. According to them, this is a full-scale natural disaster requiring snacks, naps, and dramatic monologues.

 Hurricane season in a Southern household with cats is less about preparedness and more about managing feline theatrics. The storms may come and go. But the cats’ commitment to chaos is year-round. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As hurricane season rolls in loud, humid, and disrespectful, my cats continue their annual tradition of acting like they’re the only ones holding this household together. And as the first storm bands roll in with wind howling. Trees bending. And humidity thick enough to butter toast. The cats will continue their sacred seasonal rituals. Piper will keep forecasting doom. Coco will keep hoarding snacks like she’s preparing for the Great Depression Part II: Gulf Coast Edition. And Tinkerbell will keep collapsing like she’s auditioning for a Southern Gothic opera. And whispering with her eyes, “Tell my story.”

And me? I’ll be right here. Lighting the charcoal. Praying for a breeze. And accepting that no matter what the National Hurricane Center says, the real storm is living with three dramatic Southern cats who believe they are the main characters of the Gulf Coast. And I’ll be standing in the doorway. Hair frizzed into a shape not recognized by science yelling, “IT’S JUST RAIN, Y’ALL!” While three furry Southerners behave like they’re starring in Gone With the Wind: The Meteorological Cut.

The truth is that hurricanes come and go. But the cats’ commitment to unnecessary theatrics is a year-round, Category 5 situation. And honestly? That’s the real emergency alert system in this house. So go on, Mother Nature. Spin your little storms. My cats have already declared a state of emergency. Eaten the rations. And blamed me for the humidity. Storm dismissed. The cats remain undefeated. Thanks for reading! And make sure you’re prepared.

Affirmation: I stay calm, even when the cats act like the Weather Channel is personally attacking them.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Bat Shit Strain Review

“Bat Shit isn’t just a strain. It’s the moment your brain throws its hands up, laughs, and decides to take the scenic route back to sanity.”

 -Jenna “Highway to Chill” Morales, Cannabis Humorist & Accidental Philosopher

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Alright, let’s talk about a strain that does not care about your intentions, your plans, or your to‑do list. Bat Shit shows up like it’s been waiting in the parking lot revving its engine, ready to drag you into whatever nonsense it has planned. This is not a polite strain. This is a strain that kicks the door open like, “Who touched the thermostat?”

It’s Mental Health Awareness Month, and honestly, there has never been a better time to talk about a strain named Bat Shit. If there were ever a phrase that perfectly captures the moment when your brain quietly unplugs itself and walks off the job, it’s this one.

Bat Shit is the ultimate description of losing mental control. Not in a scary way, but in that “my thoughts just left the building without clocking out” kind of way. This strain doesn’t just nudge your mind off the rails; it hands your brain a tiny suitcase, waves goodbye, and wishes it luck on its journey. You know you’re about to experience something that understands chaos on a spiritual level. Bat Shit doesn’t arrive politely. It shows up like it’s been waiting in the parking lot revving its engine, ready to drag you into whatever nonsense it has planned.

Bat Shit is the love child of two strains that probably should’ve never been left alone together. It’s usually described as a cross between Gorilla Glue #4 x Durban Poison. Which explains why it feels like someone duct‑taped a rocket booster to a recliner. Gorilla Glue is a cross between Chem’s Sister x Sour Dubb x Chocolate Diesel. Durban Poison is a pure African Landrace Sativa from Durban, South Africa. That’s it. No chaotic crossbreeding. No dramatic lineage. Just a true landrace, meaning it evolved naturally in its native region over generations.

Top terpenes in bat shit are Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene, and Pinene. Patients report relief from stress & anxiety, mood elevation, pain and inflammation, and fatigue. Some strains whisper. Some strains nudge. Bat Shit does neither. This strain busts through the door like it’s late for a meeting it wasn’t invited to, holding a gas station coffee and announcing, “Alright, who messed up the vibe in here?”

The moment I cracked the jar, the aroma hit me with the same force as opening a forgotten Tupperware in the back of the fridge. I knew immediately that whatever happened next, I would not be in charge. This strain has the energy of someone who shows up to your house, asks where the bathroom is, and somehow ends up reorganizing your pantry. Bat Shit does not ease you in. It hits like a plot twist in a show you weren’t even watching.

This is the strain that makes you forget what you were doing, why you were doing it, and whether you ever actually started. It’s is the friend who convinces you to rearrange your furniture at 2 a.m., then leaves halfway through because they “just remembered something.” You’ll be confused, entertained, and slightly concerned. But you’ll also be having a great time.

If you want a strain that delivers laughter, chaos, and a temporary break from being a functioning adult, Bat Shit is the one. Just don’t expect to remember where you put anything afterward. 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 rise in my queerness, I breathe in my peace, and I stay lifted in a joy so loud and unapologetic that even the universe has to adjust its crown.”

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Bubble Bath Strain Review

“Peace isn’t something you find. It’s something you steep in.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re stepping into the tub of truth with the strain Bubble Bath. It’s a strain that doesn’t just relax you. It baptizes you in a whole new denomination of “mind your business and moisturize your spirit.”

Bubble Bath is an Indica-dominant hybrid. It’s a cross between  The Soap × Project 4516. The Soap is a cross between Animal Mints × Kush Mints. Project 4516 is a cross between Gelato 41 × Gelato 45. It’s the kind that whispers “sit down somewhere” but with manners. This lineage is basically a family reunion where everybody smells expensive. Nobody brought paper plates. And someone’s aunt is definitely reading tarot in the corner.

Bubble Bath hits like a spa day in a smoke cloud. And the flavors consist of a creamy, soft vanilla, fresh herbal mint, a little floral soapiness (but in a “rich auntie’s bathroom” way, not “hotel lobby dispenser” way), and a lingering sweetness that feels like warm steam on your face.

The terpene profile is Limonene, Linalool, and Caryophyllene. Together they create a “take your bra off and exhale” moment. Bubble Bath is the strain you call when your whole nervous system is filing HR complaints. It may help with chronic stress, anxiety, insomnia, and muscle pain. This is the strain for when you need to be held but by THC instead of a person.

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, where the plant was grown. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’ Have you tried this strain?

Affirmation: I release the noise. I welcome the softness. And I let my spirit settle like warm water.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Truth Over Tradition: My Exit From Comfortable Dysfunction

“The truth didn’t break my family. The pretending did.”

-Unknown

Here’s the bigger picture. I didn’t grow up in a family that heals. Problems don’t get solved. They get buried alive. And then resurrected during holidays like emotional zombies. Now that me and my sister are adults, childhood resentments still pop up like whack‑a‑mole. And nobody wants to pick up a mallet. Let’s all smile in public so we don’t “defame the family.” Which honestly, does a fantastic job defaming itself.

And my family isn’t special. Dysfunction is everywhere. I have enough mental health education in my background to recognize the patterns. But they’ll swear I’m the problem. If you look past the church smiles, the whole system is sick. I would genuinely rather be hit by a car than attend “family time.” And because my kids were born into a lesbian family, they get treated like they came with a moral recall notice.

You can’t throw money at children and then take no active part in their lives the rest of the time. Especially, when you do the opposite with the other children in the family. The kids notice. I’ve tried talking about it for 17 years. And the truth is this. They just don’t care.

I have a master’s degree in counseling psychology. Yet somehow I’m the ignorant one. They don’t want insight. They don’t want help. They want silence. And mine has officially expired. I defend myself and my kids however I see fit. Respectfully? No. Effectively? Absolutely.

They want healing without effort. They’re emotional pillow princesses that want the benefits of growth while doing absolutely nothing but blinking dramatically. And when truth bruises their egos, accountability never shows up. Meanwhile, my dad plays messenger pigeon flying information back and forth between me and the rest of the family so that the dysfunction stays perfectly preserved.

Here’s the part they’ll never admit. Family therapy requires guts and transparency. And those two things they treat like forbidden sins. Instead, they’ve built a giant sand pile where they can bury their heads. And pretend nothing is wrong. That’s their comfort zone. Not truth. Not healing. Just sand. Neck‑deep and breathing through a straw of selective memory.

My favorite quote says it best, “If nothing changes, then nothing changes.” And I refuse to be silenced because their comfort depends on my suffering.

Our family lives in what I call comfortable dysfunction. It’s the emotional recliner they refuse to replace even though the springs are broken. And the fabric smells like denial. It’s easier than accountability. Easier than honesty. Easier than saying, “Maybe the gay daughter isn’t the downfall of civilization.”

And as if being the rainbow sheep wasn’t enough. I’m also the green sheep of the family because I’m a medical cannabis patient. And the family’s translation is that I’m “druggin’ and thuggin’.” The “bad influence.” And the “one who needs prayer.” But that’s not even the real issue.

The problem is my refusal to sit quietly in the pew of generational silence. The issue is that I no longer participate in the family’s favorite pastime of pretending. I’m done shrinking myself so other people can stay cozy in their outdated beliefs. I’m done letting conservative Christian values be weaponized against me and my children.

They can keep their selective morality. The kind where my sister thinks being gay is “wrong and evil.” But somehow premarital sex is just the Olympic sport of “being human.” Funny how sin gets flexible when it’s their behavior on the table. 

“My family says I’m ‘living in sin.’ Which is wild coming from some of them who wave a red hat like it’s the state flower. They preach about morality and still treat premarital sex, drinking, and hypocrisy like they’re covered under the ‘Jesus forgives me’ warranty.”And trust me. They act like I graffitied the Ten Commandments in rainbow glitter.

Being gay automatically made me the family’s “problem child.” Even though the real problems have nothing to do with what gender I love. And everything to do with the fact that I refuse to pretend. My sister can have premarital sex. Drink like she’s hydrating for the Olympics and drive afterward. And micromanage her child like she’s running a dictatorship. But somehow I’m the moral crisis.

Meanwhile, my sister’s shot glasses stays full. Her judgment stays loud. And her hypocrisy stays undefeated. Funny how cannabis for medical reasons is “dangerous.” But alcohol with a side of denial is “just being human.” I’m the rainbow sheep because I live authentically. I’m the green sheep because I choose a legal, doctor‑recommended treatment. And I’m the scapegoat because I refuse to shrink so other people can stay comfortable in their dysfunction. If being myself makes me the rainbow‑green hybrid sheep of the family, then so be it. At least I’m not grazing in the pasture of hypocrisy.

So no, I’m not stepping back into the box they built for me. I’m not dimming myself, so their comfort stays intact. I’m not carrying the weight of a family that refuses to lift a finger for its own healing. They can keep their comfortable dysfunction. They can keep their silence. They can keep their outdated beliefs wrapped in Bible verses that only apply to me.

Today I honor my inner rainbow‑green sheep. I’m fabulously queer. I’m medically lifted. And completely unbothered by the opinions of people who confuse hypocrisy with holiness.”

I’m choosing truth over tradition. I’m choosing growth over guilt. I’m choosing my children, my peace, and my sanity. And if my existence shakes the foundation of their worldview. Then the foundation was weak to begin with. Thanks for reading! Do you and let the others do them.

Affirmation: I bless my rainbow‑green sheep soul today queer, medicated, and thriving. While certain relatives clutch their red hats and pearls at my existence. But don’t blink twice at their own chaos, contradictions, or alcohol fueled commandments.

***Don’t forget the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife