awareness

darnold1975

A Prayer So Wild Even the Angels Clocked Out Early

“Some prayers lift the spirit. Others just lift the eyebrows.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Hide your children, your casseroles, and your common sense. Because what I witnessed at that unfortunate local Mississippi event wasn’t a prayer. It was a theological Nascar crash. And every angel in heaven refused to file the insurance claim.

Picture it. A field full of red hats bobbing like a colony of patriotic mushrooms. The air thick with humidity, Axe body spray, and generational resentment. A folding table sagging under the weight of mayonnaise‑based salads. And a speaker system held together with duct tape and denial.

Then he stepped forward. The Chosen One of the Red‑Hat Prayer Circle. A man built like a refrigerator with opinions. A man whose shirt had more eagles than the actual sky. A man who looked like he’d been baptized in Monster Energy. He grabbed the microphone like he was about to drop a mixtape called “Gospel of the Grievance.” 

He clears his throat like he’s about to summon the Holy Ghost, the founding fathers, and the HOA board all at once. And then. Lord help us. He opened his mouth.

What came out was not a prayer. It was not a blessing. It was not even a coherent sentence structure. It was a spiritual Yelp review written by a man who thinks the Holy Trinity is God, Country, and Bathroom Legislation. Then he begins The Prayer. The one that made the angels file HR complaints.

“Heavenly Father. We come before you today under this blessed Mississippi sun. Which you made hotter every year to punish the radical left for their wickedness.

Lord, we know that every single problem in this world can be traced back to them. The hurricanes? The liberals. The price of eggs? The liberals. My gout flaring up last Tuesday? Father God, that was the liberals too.

And Lord, we thank you that our sins don’t count. Because we carry the “Jesus Warranty.” We swipe it like a rewards card. We sin. We repent. We sin again. And you just keep stamping that little heavenly punch card. But the liberals, Lord? Unforgivable. They are the real ones on the predatory registry. Not all the republicans. But that’s none of my business, Father.

Lord, we thank You that here in Mississippi, we stay focused on the things that matter most like genitals, bathrooms, and our loyal governor who kneels so faithfully before the Orange Messiah. He bends the knee so hard, Lord, he’s got calluses shaped like patriotism.

Father, we lift up the windmills to you. Those demonic pinwheels of destruction. They’re out there slaughtering birds. Driving whales insane. And screaming so loud they give people cancer. Lord, we know the whales are acting up because they can’t handle the noise. They’re liberals at heart, Father. Sensitive. Emotional. Always protesting something.

And Lord, we rebuke the immigrants who are coming here to eat our dogs and cats. We know this because someone’s cousin’s neighbor’s Facebook post said so. And that’s good enough for us.

Father, protect us from the left trying to make everyone gay and transgender. They’re out here handing out pronouns like coupons. Even though they say that pronouns are in the English language. And that’s also a hoax. Next thing you know, my truck’s gonna identify as a Prius.

Lord, we thank you for the brave idea of firing nuclear weapons into hurricanes. We know it would’ve worked if the deep state hadn’t interfered. We thank you for the tariffs on penguins, Father. The money is pouring in. We don’t know where from. But it’s pouring in.

We thank you for answering our prayer about gasoline. It’s the lowest it’s ever been. Even though the sign says otherwise. But we don’t read numbers. Lord numbers are liberal. We thank you for the funds for the Pedophile Patio at the White House. We don’t know what it is. But the liberals said it’s bad. So, it must really be good. And that’s enough for us.

Lord, we ask You to bless our crosses. Which absolve us of all wrongdoing. We wear them proudly, Father, even when we’re screaming at cashiers or crashing Grindr. Not that we’ve ever crashed Grindr. That was the liberals.

And Father, we rebuke the rumors about ladybugs we may or may not have contracted from Lindsey “Lady” Graham. We don’t have them. We’ve never had them. We don’t think. That’s the liberals’ fault too. Lord, we pray for this nation. We pray for our bathrooms. We pray for our genitals. We pray for our Orange Messiah. And we pray that you continue to forgive us instantly while holding everyone else accountable forever. In your holy, conservative, red‑hat‑approved name we pray. Amen.”

As the final “Amen” echoed across the field. Bounced off the port‑a‑potties. Ricocheting through the humidity. And startling at least three confused squirrels. I realized something profound. This wasn’t a prayer. This was a confession disguised as patriotism. A spiritual tantrum. A theological meltdown. A holy‑ghost‑free revival sponsored by conspiracy theories and lukewarm potato salad.

The red‑hat faithful walked away feeling forgiven. Justified. And spiritually moisturized. Not because they’d repented. But because they’d shouted loudly enough to drown out their own guilt. Meanwhile, the rest of us stood there blinking like we’d just witnessed a raccoon steal a wedding cake.

If delusion had a megachurch, this prayer would’ve been the keynote speaker. If hypocrisy had a hymn book, this prayer would’ve been track one. If nonsense had a national anthem, this prayer would’ve been sung at every football game.

And here’s my final word. May we all be delivered from prayers that sound like Facebook comments. May our humor stay sharp. Our queerness stay loud. And our spirits stay unbothered. And may the next local event have better food, better theology, and fewer polyester hats. Thanks for reading! And thank you for your attention to this matter. Praise Be To Allah!

  Affirmation: I stand rooted in truth, humor, and queer resilience. No amount of red‑hat chaos can shake my spirit or dim my brilliance.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Purple Diesel Strain Review

“Purple Diesel is that friend who shows up unannounced. Cleans your kitchen.And leaves you with a playlist that changes your whole week.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like a front‑porch sermon. Today we’re talking about a strain that pulls up with diesel on its breath. And purple royalty in its bones. It’s a strain that goes by the name Purple Diesel.

Purple Diesel is a sativa‑dominant hybrid. It’s the kind that wakes you up. Straightens your crown. And tells you to get your life together but nicely. It is a cross between Sour Diesel × Pre‑98 Bubba Kush. South Diesel is a cross between Chemdawg × Super Skunk. Pre-98 Bubba Kush is a cross between OG Kush phenotype × (likely) Afghani landrace influence. This is the kind of ancestry that explains why Purple Diesel hits like a caffeinated poet with a velvet robe.

The flavor tastes like grape skins crushed under a boot heel. A splash of berry lemonade. A diesel‑fume exhale that says, “I’ve lived a life.” And a faint herbal sweetness that lingers like gossip on a porch swing. It’s fruity, funky, and fuel‑forward. And a whole personality in vapor form.

The terpene profile is Limonene, Myrcene, and Caryophyllene. Together they create a profile that’s energizing without being chaotic, flavorful without being sticky‑sweet. Consumers often reach for Purple Diesel when they need relief from mood, fatigue, stress, and mild pain. It’s the strain for when you need to move, but you also need to feel something again.

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 rise with clarity. Move with purpose. And honor the energy that fuels me.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Melon Bar Strain Review

“I don’t rise and shine. I spark and vibe.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, we’re talking about a strain so unserious, so fruity, so spiritually chaotic that it walked into my house, looked around, and said, “Oh, y’all don’t have snacks? Tragic.”

Melon Bar didn’t just enter my life. It burst in like a Southern auntie wearing a sundress, hoop earrings, and a personal vendetta against humidity. The moment I cracked the jar, the aroma hit me with the exact energy of a church lady saying, “I brought a little something,” and then unveiling a dessert that could end generational curses.

This strain smells like someone blended cantaloupe, honeydew, and the kind of optimism I only feel after paying a bill early. It’s fruity, creamy, and suspiciously cheerful like a popsicle that knows too much.

Melon Bar is a cross between Watermelon Zkittlez × Ice Cream Cake, which explains why it tastes like a fruit salad that went to private school. Watermelon Zkittlez brings the tropical sweetness, Ice Cream Cake brings the creamy calm, and together they create a hybrid that feels like a beach vacation you didn’t have to plan. The flavor? Imagine a melon smoothie that got its tax return. Imagine a fruit bar that discovered therapy. Imagine a Jolly Rancher that learned boundaries. That’s Melon Bar.

The effects hit like a warm breeze telling you to unclench your jaw, drink some water, and stop arguing with people who don’t even recycle. It’s uplifting without being chaotic, relaxing without turning you into a couch fossil. Perfect for cleaning your house, reorganizing your life, or staring at your cat like they’re the reincarnation of a wise forest spirit.

Top terpenes in this strain include Limonene, Myrcene, and Caryophyllene, which is basically the Holy Trinity of “I’m chill, but I still have things to do.” Patients report relief from stress, mood swings, tension, and that specific kind of irritability that comes from dealing with humans.

Melon Bar is the strain you smoke when you want to feel like a fruity cloud drifting through your responsibilities with grace, humor, and a snack in your hand. It’s sweet, it’s silly, and it hits like a popsicle that believes in your potential.

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 am calm, collected, and spiritually lifted, floating through life like a gummy that kicked in early.”

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Fentanyl Awareness: Denial Isn’t a Life-Saving Strategy

“Awareness isn’t comfortable, but neither is grief. Choose the discomfort that saves lives.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today, we’re talking about Fentanyl Awareness. And Lord knows some folks need more than sage. They need a whole spiritual intervention. A PowerPoint and maybe a smack from an ancestor with a wooden spoon.

We’re still living in a world where people think fentanyl is something that happens to “other families,” “other communities,” or “those people over there.” Fentanyl doesn’t care about your zip code. Your Bible study attendance record. Or how many casseroles you’ve delivered to the church potluck. It is an equal-opportunity destroyer. And yet, some folks still clutch their pearls and say, “Well, if people didn’t do drugs.” Sweetheart, if ignorance burned calories, half this country would be runway-ready.

Fentanyl isn’t a moral issue. It’s a public health crisis. A grief generator. And a silent killer that slips into communities like humidity in Mississippi. It comes uninvited. Suffocating. And everywhere. But sure, let’s keep pretending it’s just a “bad choice” problem. And just for shits and giggles, I’ll say that bombing people in fishing boats that are clearly are not transporting this substance is not an answer to the problem.

Fentanyl doesn’t knock. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready to have your life rearranged. It shows up like a tornado in the middle of a sunny day. It’s fast. Violent. And leaves you standing in the wreckage while wondering how the hell everything changed in seconds.

People aren’t overdosing because they’re weak. They’re overdosing because fentanyl is 50 times stronger than heroin. And 100 times stronger than morphine. They’re overdosing because it’s being mixed into substances without their knowledge. They’re overdosing because the world is heavy. Trauma is real. And coping mechanisms don’t magically appear with a bow on top.

But try telling that to the folks who think addiction is a “willpower issue.” These are the same people who can’t resist a clearance sale at Hobby Lobby. But somehow believe others should resist a chemically engineered substance designed to hijack the brain.

Addiction is not a character flaw. It’s not a spiritual failure. It’s not a lack of discipline. It’s a medical condition. A trauma response. And sometimes a desperate attempt to feel anything other than pain.

And fentanyl? It’s the predator waiting in the shadows. Families are burying children. Parents are burying parents. Communities are burying potential futures and dreams. And still some folks would rather cling to judgment than compassion. Because compassion requires effort. Judgment is free and easy like drive-thru theology.

So, here’s the truth that’s wrapped in Southern sass and tied with a bow of reality. Fentanyl doesn’t care about your opinions. It doesn’t care about your politics. It doesn’t care about your moral superiority complex. But we should care. We should care enough to talk about it. We should care enough to educate ourselves. We should care enough to stop pretending this crisis is happening in some faraway land to people we’ll never meet.

Fentanyl is already here. It’s in our towns, our schools, families, and our communities. And pretending otherwise won’t save a single life. And for the love of all things holy, open your eyes. Denial has never saved anyone. Awareness does. Compassion does. Action does. Try not to trip over it on your way back to reality. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts?

Affirmation: I choose compassion over judgment. Truth over denial. And awareness over silence. My voice matters. And so does every life touched by this crisis.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Cobra Chi #2 Strain Review

“Legalize it? I already did-in my living room.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that brings back the fond memories of the 1980’s. And how many of us Gen X individuals could ever forget the movie Karate Kid? Mr. Miyagi, Daniel Laruso, and his redemption from being the one who was bullied. To the one who showed us what hard work, trust and discipline could accomplish by the ultimate underdog. 

Cobra Chi #2 is a 70/30 sativa-dominant hybrid that is a cross of Margwa #1 x Chimera #3. Margwa #1 is a strain that is not publicly documented. Therefore, I don’t have a direct lineage for this strain. Chimera #3 is a balanced hybrid cross between Chimera x White Truffle. Looking at these genetics Margwa #1 must have a sativa-dominance in its genetics somewhere.

The top terpenes for this strain are D-Limonene, Linalool, Myrcene, and Caryophyllene. Patients report relief from conditions such as chronic stress, chronic pain, depression, migraines, mood swings, ADD/ADHD, headaches, and nausea. This strain, in my opinion, is very mild. And it is a strain that can be enjoyed by all. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’

Affirmation: I water myself from the bottom up to grow deep roots like a strong mother plant.

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Permanent Marker Strain Review

“How many stoners does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None, we got lighters.”

-Unknown

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to tell you about a strain that I’m grouping under 80’s names. And what Gen X’er doesn’t remember sniffing the permanent  markers accidentally left around the room by the teacher. Ok, maybe it was a little strange to those who never did this. But we Gen X’ers sniffed random markers as part of our childhood daily life.

The very first thing I noticed about this strain is that familiar aroma and taste of diesel fumes. So maybe it doesn’t exactly smell like the highly sought after ink smell but it’s one that you will remember without a doubt. The genetic line is lengthy so pay attention. This strain is a 70%/30% indica-dominant strain. The genetic cross is Biscotti x Jealousy x Sherbet BX strains. Biscotti is a cross between Gelato 25 x Sour Florida OG. Jealousy is a cross between Gelato 41 x Sherbet BX1. And finally, BX strain are a backcross Sherbet strain. And a backcross strain is s hybrid strain that is bred back to a parent strain. The main reasons this is done that I will simplify is related to particular strain trait reinforcement and genetic stability. There are other reasons but those are just a couple.

The major terpenes in this strain are Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene. Patients report from such conditions as chronic fatigue, PMS, cramps, depression, mood swings, chronic stress, and PTSD. I had this strain as a vape cart. But if you like the taste of diesel you’ll sure to love this strain and its potency. This strain was voted Leafly Strain of the Year in 2023. Keep blazin’!

Affirmation: I inhale peace and exhale stress.

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Gushers Strain Review

“Gushers is the strain that reminds you joy doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just fruit‑flavored and waiting on you.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for its shift. Today we’re calling in the spirit of Gushers. It’s the strain that tastes like somebody melted a bag of fruit snacks on the dashboard of a ’98 Corolla and somehow made it holy.

Gushers is a 60/40 indica-hybrid. Not the kind that can’t make up its mind. This one knows exactly who it is. It’s a laid‑back, fruit‑forward, body‑melting hybrid. And walks into the room wearing Crocs and still pulls focus. This strain is a cross between Gelato #41 × Triangle Kush. Gelato #41 is a cross between Sunset Sherbet × Thin Mint GSC. And Triangle Kush is a cross between Emerald Triangle OG × Hindu Kush. Gushers tastes like fruit snacks, sweet berry syrup, tropical candy, and a whisper of earthy kush on the exhale. It’s the strain equivalent of someone handing you a Capri Sun and saying, “You look like you need this.”

The terpene profile is Caryophyllene, Limonene, and Linalool. Together they create a vibe that’s equal parts candy aisle and meditation pillow. Patients reach for this strain to help with chronic stress, anxiety, mild to moderate pain, mood swings, appetite support, and end‑of‑day decompression. This is a strain that doesn’t rush you. It just hands you a blanket and says, “Baby, breathe.”

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 allow sweetness to find me. I soften. I settle. And I let my body remember ease.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Gassiest Strains Old and New: From Diesel Legends to 2026 Heavy Hitter

“Some folks chase sweetness. I chase the kind of gas that makes the room reconsider its life choices.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re summoning the spirits of pure, uncut GAS. The strains that smell like somebody parked a diesel truck inside a citrus grove and left it idling through the Rapture.

Below is the Budtender Moment guide to the gassiest classics. And the new‑school 2026 heavy hitters. And they have enough funk to peel paint off a double‑wide. I am someone who truly loves the stinkiest strains available. The ones that hit your nose like a spiritual slap from the universe. And yes, I know they’re almost always indica‑dominant. And yes, I still run toward them like they’re handing out free emotional stability at the door. But here’s the truth. That stink is where I find the most relief.

I personally love that diesel‑fuel flavor. The kind of taste that makes you wonder if you should be smoking it or checking it for an oil leak. That’s nothing more than personal preference. But it’s my preference. And these are also the strains that make other people’s heads whip around like, “Ewwwww. What is that smell?” To which I reply, with the confidence of a Southern auntie blessing the potluck table, “That’s the beautiful smell of healing, sweetheart. Don’t be rude.” Sometimes I even add, “If your weed doesn’t smell like a truck stop bathroom during a Nascar weekend, I don’t want it.” 

Gas is not a smell. It’s a warning label. It’s the terpene equivalent of your uncle’s truck backfiring during Sunday service. It’s the aroma that tells you, “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere for a minute.” And in 2026, gas is back with a vengeance. Candy strains still run the TikTok crowd. But the real heads? They’re hunting for diesel, skunk, rubber, fuel, and straight‑up chemical warfare. Let’s get into it.

 The Gassiest Strains of 2026 (Plus the Classics That Built the Church)

The classic gas gods are the strains that walked so the new exotics could run.

OG Kush (Chemdawg × (Lemon Thai × Hindu Kush)

It is the grandfather of modern gas. Earthy, piney, fuel‑soaked, and attitude heavy. If OG Kush were a person, it would be a retired mechanic who still wins bar fights. Why it’s still top tier? Perfect balance of body melt + mental clarity. That unmistakable fuel‑pine punch. And the backbone of half the strains on the market.

Sour Diesel (Chemdawg × Super Skunk)

It is the strain that smells like someone spilled jet fuel on a lemon. Energetic, cerebral, and loud enough to get you kicked out of a library. Why it endures? Fast‑acting uplift. Iconic diesel nose. And the blueprint for modern sativas with bite.

Chemdawg (Mystery Colorado “Dogbud” × Unknown High‑Potency Mystery Strain)

It is the chemical spill that started a dynasty. Sharp, funky, pungent kind of smell that makes new smokers ask, “Is it supposed to smell like that?” Why it’s legendary? It’s a parent of Sour D, OG Kush, and countless 2026 exotics. It has heavy potency. And is pure gas from start to finish.

Gorilla Glue #4 (GG4) (Chem’s Sister × Sour Dubb × Chocolate Diesel)

 Is sticky, funky, rubbery, and strong enough to glue you to the couch like a failed DIY project. Why it’s still a favorite? It’s a resin monster. It provides deep relaxation. And that classic rubber‑meets‑diesel aroma.

These are the new school strains carrying the torch. And lighting it with a blowtorch. Get ready for the some of the newest funk on the market.

GMO (Garlic Cookies) ( Girl Scout Cookies × Chemdawg)

GMO is still the undisputed king of “my God, what is that smell?” Garlic, gas, funk, and a little bit of “did someone leave food in the car?” Why it’s huge in 2026? It has sky‑high potency. It has that unmistakable savory‑fuel profile. And hash makers worship it.

Gumbo (Gummo × Guru)

Gumbo is the strain that said, “Candy is cute, but let’s get weird again.” Savory, funky, gassy, and loud. Why it’s hot in 2026? It has that unique terp profile. Heavy body effects. And is a leader in the “funk comeback” movement.

Hash Burger (Han Solo Burger × (Hash Plant × Larry OG)

Hash Burger smells like someone grilled a burger on a diesel generator. Savory, earthy, fuel‑rich, and resinous. Why it’s trending? It’s built for hash. Those deep, relaxing effects. And a terp profile that punches first and apologizes never.

Gorilla Breath (Gorilla Glue #4 × OGKB)

A modern hybrid that blends classic gas with sweet undertones. Think OG Kush meets a rubber tire shop. Why it’s rising? Because of its balanced potency. It’s very loud aroma. And perfect for people who want gas with a little dessert.

Motorbreath (Chemdawg × SFV OG Kush)

If you want straight fuel, no fruit, no candy, no nonsense. Motorbreath is your strain. Why 2026 loves it? It’s pure diesel. The very heavy effects. And a favorite among old‑school heads.

Gas isn’t just a terp profile. It’s a personality type. It’s a lifestyle. And a spiritual alignment. Gas never left. It just waited for the candy craze to calm down. And in 2026, the real heads are circling back to the strains that smell like a mechanic shop, a truck stop, and a citrus grove had a love child. These are the strains that built the culture. Shaped the genetics. And still slap harder than your grandma’s “I told you not to touch that” backhand. Gas is for the people who don’t need their weed to taste like a cupcake or a tropical smoothie. Gas is for the folks who want their flower to announce itself like a Southern auntie walking into a room with a fresh wig and a louder opinion.

May your jars stay loud. Your grinders stay sticky. Your terps stay funky. Your gas stay premium. May your stash always lean toward the strains that tell the truth. The ones that smell like a mechanic shop on a July afternoon. Like a tire fire behind a Waffle House. Like somebody spilled jet fuel on a stack of church fans and said, “Yep. That’s the one.” And may your nose stay blessed with the kind of diesel funk that makes strangers in the parking lot turn around and say, “Lord, who brought that?”

In this house, we don’t chase trends. We chase truth, terpenes, and the kind of diesel that clears a room and heals a soul. And if you’re here reading this and nodding along. And smelling imaginary diesel in the air. Then you already know. The future of cannabis isn’t sweet. It’s funky. It’s rubbery. It’s chemical. It’s loud.

So, roll it up, spark it slow, and let the ancestors of OG, Chem, and Sour whisper their wisdom through the smoke. In 2026 and beyond, one truth remains eternal. Candy fades. Trends die. But gas? Gas is forever. Thanks for reading! And keep blazin.’

Affirmation: I honor what heals me. Even if it smells like a truck stop exorcism. My relief is sacred. My preference is valid. And my gas is premium.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Careers We Respect From a Distance: Why This House Will Never Enter the Human Backdoor Olympics

“After today’s conversation, I’ve decided that if life ever assigns me a job involving the human backdoor, I will simply log out of the simulation and let my cats take over my identity.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re cleansing not just the room, but the entire situation that led us here in the first place. The energy was so chaotic, even the ancestors peeked around the corner like, “Now who summoned this foolishness?” And the cats scattered like I’d announced surprise bath time. Which tells you everything you need to know about the spiritual turbulence we were dealing with.

While standing there in a cloud of sage and cannabis. And trying to convince myself that adulthood is not just paperwork, mystery smells, and emotional turbulence. I learned something that shook my spirit straight out of alignment. Somebody out there chooses to become a proctologist. Not “falls into it accidentally.” Not “lost a bet.” Not “was assigned by a vengeful guidance counselor.”

Let me tell you what set off this whole cleansing ritual. I learned that proctologists. The real, licensed, tax‑paying adults choose that career. A human being wakes up one morning, stretches, yawns, and says, “You know what? I want to spend the rest of my life abyss excavating the darkest corners of the human situation. They don’t get drafted. They don’t lose a bet. They don’t wake up in a Saw movie and have to pick between that and dentistry.

No. They look at the buffet of human professions and say, “Yes. The canyon. The cavern. The forbidden hallway. That’s my ministry.” And listen. I respect them. Somebody has to do it. But it will never be anyone in this house.

Coco climbed onto the laundry basket like she was about to deliver a royal decree.

“Mother,” she began with the tone of someone who has never been wrong in her life. She said, “I do not even look at my own butt. Why would I volunteer to examine strangers? I am a queen. Not a Rear‑End Archaeologist.” Then she knocked over a cup to punctuate her point.

Piper pulled out her clipboard like she was conducting federal interviews.

She said, “Let’s review my qualifications. I’m good at surveillance, judgment, filing complaints, identifying your mistakes in real time. And documenting chaos for legal and spiritual purposes.

“Now,” she continued, “let’s review what I am not qualified for.” I am not qualified for tunnel exploration. Human cave mapping. Backdoor diagnostics. And anything requiring latex gloves. She looked at me over her glasses (that she does not own) and added, “And neither are you.”

Tinkerbell arrived late, loud, and ready to deliver a keynote address.

And while pacing like a tiny insurance adjuster preparing to deny a claim she said, “Every household needs boundaries. And the boundary we are establishing today is simple. No one here is going into the human abyss professionally.” She then knocked a plant off the counter. I assume that was her way of cleansing the space.

Let’s be honest. We are a household of snacks, chaos, and questionable decisions. We are not a household of brave medical back‑alley expeditioners. And we are barely a household of people who can schedule our own appointments. If someone said, “Dana, your community needs you to become a proctologist.” I would simply pack a bag and move into the woods. The cats would follow while carrying clipboards, snacks, and a list of reasons why this was the correct choice.

Coco had declared the entire topic unconstitutional. Piper had drafted a 47‑page complaint titled “Absolutely Not: A Household Manifesto.” And Tinkerbell was in the corner performing a spiritual audit to determine which one of us invited this energy into the home. And honestly? She’s right to ask.

We are a household of snacks, naps, chaos, and questionable decision‑making. But we are not a household of brave medical cave divers. We can barely handle a vet appointments without forming a support group. And the very idea of any of us voluntarily entering the human abyss? Coco said, “she’d rather get a job.” Piper said,  “she’d rather work retail.” And  Tinkerbell said, “she’d rather reincarnate.”

We salute the proctologists of the world. We honor them. We appreciate their courage, training, and their commitment to the human cause. We thank you for your service. But in this house? Absolutely not. Not today. Not tomorrow. And not in any timeline where Coco is in charge of HR. 

We will be over here lighting sage. Minding our business. And staying far, far away from the canyon of no return. By the end of this whole ordeal, it became painfully clear that me and these three furry unionized coworkers of mine are now going to have to schedule another therapy session. An emergency one, at that.

Coco needs to process the emotional violence of even hearing the word “proctologist.” Piper has to unpack the secondary trauma of documenting the conversation. And Tinkerbell? She’s already drafting a statement for the therapist titled “Boundaries, Backdoors, and Why My Household Must Never Speak of This Again.” Our poor therapist has her monumental work cut out for her.

And honestly, I’ll be right there on the couch with them. I’ll be clutching my emotional support iced coffee while explaining to our brave, patient and compassionate therapist how a simple morning spiraled into a full‑blown spiritual evacuation drill. We are not called to that ministry. And we will be processing the thought of it for weeks. And that, my friends, is where I set the mic gently on the floor. Walked away. And let the ancestors close the door behind me. Thanks for reading! And do what makes you happy. 

Affirmation: I am divinely protected from careers, conversations, and chaos that are not meant for me. My household walks in clarity, boundaries, and the sacred right to say, ‘Absolutely not.’

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Budtender Moment: Dank OG Concentrate Strain

“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.

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

#Thispuzzledlife