This Puzzled Life is a mental health and recovery blog exploring addiction, trauma healing, LGBTQ experiences, humor, and the strange moments that shape us.
“Some strains wake you up. Some slow you down. But Campfire Coffee reminds you to be here, where the sparks fly and the stories get good.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we’re calling in a strain that tastes like a Mississippi sunrise poured straight into a tin mug. And the strain name is Campfire Coffee.
Campfire Coffee is a balanced hybrid that behaves like the friend who shows up with a flannel shirt, a pocketknife, and a story they swear is true. Even though you know good and well it ain’t. It is balanced, warm, grounding but with just enough spark to keep you talking long after the fire burns low. It’s a cross between Coffee Cream × Bonfire OG. Coffee Cream is a cross between Coffee Bean × Vanilla Frost. Bonfire OG is a cross between OG Kush × Firestarter. This is a strain built like a family reunion. It’s a little sweet, smoky, chaotic, and somehow it all works. Campfire Coffee tastes like fresh‑brewed dark roast. Toasted marshmallow crust. Smoky cedar. A whisper of molasses. And an earthy cocoa on the exhale. It’s basically the flavor of telling secrets around a fire pit while someone’s dog snores at your feet.
Top terpenes in this strain are Caryophyllene, Myrcene, Humulene, and Pinene (light). Together they create a profile that feels like stepping out of a tent at dawn. Patients reach for this strain to help with stress, mild pain, inflammation, mood, creative, focus, and anxiety. Perfect for folks who want to unwind without disappearing into the sofa like a Victorian ghost
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 ground myself in warmth, creativity, and calm. I am steady like firewood and bright like flame.
“Leadership isn’t about explosions, ego, or firing everyone who disagrees. It’s about protecting the people you’re responsible for.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Grab the ancestors. Every ancestor from the Delta to the foothills is gathering around the fire pit. And clutching their pearls whispering, “Lord, this fool again?”
Secretary Pete Hegseth is a man who has turned the Pentagon into a haunted Waffle House with missiles. He is also known as “Secretary of Cirrhosis,” “Pete Kegsbreath,” “Whiskey Pete,” “Colonel Vodka,” and “Secretary of Jägermeister.” He has once again turned the Department of Defense into a demolition derby run by a man who thinks leadership is just yelling “send it” at a map he can’t read. And firing anyone who doesn’t look like his reflection.
This is the saga of a man who wakes up every morning. Salutes himself. Flexes in the mirror. And then proceeds to commit international incidents so stupid they make raccoons look like Nobel Prize winners. Let’s dive into all of his stupidity.
Firing Gay and Trans Soldiers
Pete strutted into the Pentagon and declared, “We’re restoring traditional values.” While also having affairs and paying off women to keep their mouths shut.
Translation: he fired gay soldiers, trans soldiers, and anyone who dared to have a personality. The ancestors collectively rolled their eyes so hard they sprained a spiritual muscle.
Disenfranchising Black Soldiers
Then he decided Black soldiers were “too political.” Which is rich coming from a man whose entire personality is a protein shake and a conspiracy theory.
He stripped them of roles, promotions, and dignity. And then acted confused when morale dropped faster than his approval rating.
Getting Rid of Female Service Members
Pete claimed female service members were “a distraction.” Which is hilarious because the only distraction in the Pentagon is Pete himself. He’s wandering around shirtless. Flexing. And mispronouncing countries.
He fired women left and right. Then wondered why the military suddenly had the emotional maturity of a middle school dodgeball team.
The USS Abraham Lincoln Horror Show
And then came the USS Abraham Lincoln scandal. Soldiers and their families reported horrific conditions that included:
Mold in the sleeping quarters
Sewage leaks
No working AC
Food that looked like it had already given up
Rats bold enough to request rank
Pete ignored every report. He said the ship was “fine.” He said the soldiers were “dramatic.” He said the rats were “part of the ecosystem.” The ancestors started lighting sage like it was a bonfire.
The Fishing Boat Fiasco
Pete claimed fishermen were trafficking drugs. They were literally just fishing. For fish. Not cocaine catfish. Not heroin haddock. Just fish. He bombed them anyway.
Bombing a School of 160 Girls
Pete pointed at a satellite photo and said, “That’s a terrorist camp.” It was a school. A school full of 160 girls learning math, science, and how to survive men like Pete.
Bombing a Wedding Ceremony
He later approved a drone strike on what he believed was “an enemy gathering.” It was a wedding. A wedding with a string quartet, a chocolate fountain, and a very confused officiant.
The Unlawful War in Iran
Pete misread a meme and declared war on Iran. Congress said no. The Pentagon said no. Pete said, “Too late, I already tweeted it.”
10 Crimes Committed by Secretary Pete Hegseth
Bombing innocent fishermen who were literally just vibing.
Bombing a school of 160 girls learning multiplication.
Bombing a wedding because he thought the string quartet looked suspicious.
Launching an unlawful war in Iran because he misread a meme.
Firing gay soldiers for existing.
Firing trans soldiers for breathing.
Disenfranchising Black soldiers for having opinions.
Removing female service members because he’s threatened by competence.
Ignoring horrific conditions on the USS Abraham Lincoln.
Declaring martial law in a Waffle House parking lot “for training purposes.”
The ancestors are now chain‑smoking imaginary cigarettes.
And there you have it. The tragic, comedic, catastrophic tale of Secretary Pete Hegseth. A man who proves daily that power in the wrong hands isn’t just dangerous. It’s slapstick tragedy. He is not a leader. He is not a strategist. He is a walking, talking cautionary tale wrapped in ego, chaos, and the belief that consequences are for other people. And after all of that, I would be an alcoholic too. Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Ancestors nodding in exhausted agreement. Thanks for reading! Get out and vote.
Affirmation: I release chaos. Embrace clarity. And refuse to let anyone with a title and a temper ruin my peace.
“Corruption doesn’t need brilliance. Just a man bold enough to lie with confidence.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Grab the ancestors again. Because today we’re writing one unified, unhinged, fully roast‑blog about the most catastrophically incompetent Treasury leader ever to grace a swivel chair. His name is Scott “Member of the Closetocracy” Bessant. And we’re stitching in the employee diary so tight the ancestors themselves are flipping through it like it’s a family Bible. Settle in.
The ancestors are already pacing barefoot in the yard. Clutching sweet tea and muttering, “Lord, this boy ain’t right.” The Treasury Secretary has turned America’s finances into a haunted carnival ride. That is powered by lies, coverups, and the kind of corruption that makes calculators file HR complaints. This man walked into the Treasury Department like he was entering a casino he already owed money to. He came equipped with a briefcase full of lies. A moral compass that points directly to embezzlement. A smile that says, “I definitely deleted the wrong email on purpose.” And a leadership style best described as “raccoon in a bank vault” The ancestors have lit the sage. The interns have hidden the staplers. The diary has been opened. Let’s begin.
Scott Bessant has turned the Treasury Department into a Dollar Store clearance bin of chaos. His financial policies rattle when you shake them. His press conferences contradict themselves before he finishes the first sentence. His scandals are alphabetically organized. And we still ran out of alphabet.
He once said, “We’re financially stable.” While standing in front of a spreadsheet that looked like a heart monitor flatlining. He tried to explain inflation using a sock puppet named “Fiscal Freddy.” He once told reporters, “The missing funds will turn up.” As if billions of dollars are a set of car keys he misplaced in a couch cushion. Maybe JD Vance will find it there. And now we reveal the diary.
These entries were written in the margins of government notebooks. Smudged with tears and coffee. And the quiet despair of someone who has watched Scott Bessant try to explain basic math.
Day 12: Scott held a meeting to “clarify the budget.” He brought a whiteboard with the words: “Step 1: vibes. Step 2: trust me.” I have updated my résumé.
Day 27: He told us the missing gold bars were “on loan.” To whom? He winked. I cried.
Day 41: Scott introduced a new financial policy called “Money Momentum.” It’s just… gambling. He made us clap.
Day 63: He asked if we could “round down the national debt.” I asked if he meant mathematically or spiritually. He said, “Yes.”
Day 78: He hosted a mandatory team-building exercise called “Find the Fraud.” It was him. He was the fraud.
Day 102: He announced a new transparency initiative. Then he turned off all the lights and whispered, “Now no one can see the numbers.”
Day 119: He started a Treasury TikTok series called “Budget Daddy.” I have submitted my resignation.
Day 140: He tried to “manifest financial stability.” He lit incense. The fire alarm went off.
Day 167: He declared himself “The People’s Accountant.” The people did not ask for this.
Day 200: He tried to pay for lunch with a commemorative coin. The cashier refused. He said, “This is why the economy is failing.” I whispered, “No, sir. You are.”
10 Things That Made Scott Bessant the Bandit a Corruption Hall-of-Famer
The $4 Billion Disappearing Act He said it “evaporated.” Sir, money is not steam.
The Propaganda PowerPoints He spent millions on slides that said “Everything is fine” in Comic Sans.
The Fake Audit He hired a magician. A literal magician.
The Gold Bar “Samples” Samples of what, Scott?
The Treasury TikTok Debacle He made interns film him juggling staplers while saying, “Watch me balance this budget.”
The Cayman Islands “Business Trip” He returned with a tan and a suspicious necklace.
The Emergency Budget Meeting He showed up with a whiteboard that said: “Step 1: Panic. Step 2: Blame Janet.”
The National Debt Raffle First prize: Lunch with Scott. No one entered.
The Coverup Coverup He lied about lying about lying. A corruption turducken.
The Treasury Escape Room He locked reporters inside until they “understood economics.” They emerged traumatized.
And that is the full saga of Scott Bessant. The U.S. Treasury leader who turned the nation’s finances into a haunted carnival ride. He is the human equivalent of a bounced check. The spiritual embodiment of a malfunctioning calculator. The reason the ancestors keep muttering, “Put that boy in a time-out.” His legacy will be remembered as a treasury held together with duct tape. A budget written in crayon. A department powered by caffeine, prayer, and denial. And after all of that, I would stay in the closet also. Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Ancestors nodding. Diary closed. Treasury still smoking. Thanks for reading! Vote these fools out!
Affirmation: I rise above chaos. See through manipulation. And refuse to bow to fools with power.
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk to you about a delicious little strain called Pink Certz by Apotha.
Pink Certz is a balanced hybrid that’s a cross between The Menthol x Grape Gasoline. The Menthol is a cross between Gelato 45 x White Diesel. And Grape Gasoline is a cross between Jet Fuel Gelato x Georgia Pie. This strain has a very citrusy smell and taste. And to me it tastes similar to a grapefruit.
The main terpenes are Limonene, Linalool, Caryophyllene and Endo Fenchyl. Medical benefits include relief from depression, chronic stress, anxiety, nausea, appetite loss. And reportedly, this strain works really well for Parkinson’s patients. This is not a really heavy hybrid. But it definitely hits hard with relief. Thanks for reading! Keep blazin.’
Affirmation: Nothing or nobody can stop me from blazing today.
“Leaving isn’t weakness. Staying alive long enough to escape is strength.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors the loud ones, the protective ones, in close. The ones who don’t mind flipping a table when truth needs to be told. Let the ancestors pull up their rocking chairs and lean in like, “Alright baby, tell it exactly how it happened.“ Because today, we’re walking straight into a fire that too many people pretend isn’t burning. And the topic is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.
This month isn’t just a purple ribbon or a hashtag. It’s a national reckoning. A month carved out because silence has killed too many. Shame has trapped too many. And judgment has wounded too many who were already bleeding. It exists because domestic violence is not one thing. Not one story. Not one bruise. It’s a whole constellation of harm that is emotional abuse, financial control, spiritual manipulation, psychological warfare, sexual coercion, digital stalking, physical stalking, rape, threats, intimidation, and isolation. All of it real. All of it dangerous.
And Lord knows, the Deep South has a long tradition of saying, “Well, why didn’t she just leave?” With the same tone they use when asking why you didn’t bring potato salad to the church potluck. But today we’re not whispering. We’re not sugarcoating. We’re not letting judgment drown out truth.
Domestic violence is more than bruises. More than shouting. More than slammed doors. It’s the slow erosion of your identity. It’s the constant fear humming under your skin. It’s the way you learn to read someone’s footsteps like weather patterns. It’s the way you shrink. Fold. And contort yourself trying to keep the peace that never stays peaceful.
And let me say this with all the Southern sass I can muster. If you’ve never lived it, you don’t get to judge it. Because “just leaving” is a fantasy sold by people who have never had their life threatened. Their finances controlled. Their spirit manipulated. Or their faith weaponized against them. I know this because I lived it. Fourteen years in a domestic abuse situation that nearly swallowed me whole. The cycle wasn’t simple. It was a trap crafted with precision love bombing, threats, and intimidation. That is continuously repeated until you forget what freedom feels like.
I didn’t stay because I was weak. I stayed because I was scared. I stayed because I was conditioned. I stayed because every exit felt like a death sentence. And let me make something crystal clear. It wasn’t a billionaire. It wasn’t a senator. It wasn’t a monster hiding in the shadows. It wasn’t an immigrant. It wasn’t a drag queen with a story book. It wasn’t a trans person. It wasn’t a black person. It was a white, “Christian” man in the Deep South. One who used the Bible like a weapon. While twisting scripture into shackles. Preaching submission while practicing cruelty. A man who believed control was his God-given right. And fear was his favorite language.
That’s why Domestic Violence Awareness Month matters. Because abuse doesn’t look like one stereotype. Survivors don’t fit one mold. Judgment is easy. But understanding saves lives. It is a promise. A collective vow that we will speak loudly. Love fiercely. And refuse to let anyone’s suffering stay hidden behind closed doors.
And now, let me drop this mic so hard the ancestors stand up and clap. I survived what was meant to break me. I reclaimed what was stolen from me. And I will never apologize again for the fire in my voice. Thanks for reading! What have been your experiences?
Affirmation: I honor my survival, my truth, and my healing. I am worthy of safety, love, and a life without fear.
“Some days you don’t need a miracle. You just need a lemon-scented nudge back into yourself.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. And let the ancestors know we’re about to talk some citrus warfare. It’s Southern-chaotic. Science-forward. Spirit-guided. Exactly how we do it. And the name of the strain is Lemon Sportiff.
Lemon Sportiff is a sativa-dominant hybrid. The genetics consist of Lemon Skunk × Super Silver Haze. Lemon Skunk is a cross between Skunk #1 × Citral. Super Silver Haze is a cross between Skunk #1 × Northern Lights × Haze. It’s the kind that wakes you up like somebody just slammed a screen door during a thunderstorm and yelled, “Y’all up?” It’s bright. It’s zesty. It’s athletic in the way only a strain named Sportiff could be. It’s like it’s wearing a sweatband and telling you to hydrate. Lemon Sportiff comes from a lineage that feels like a family reunion where everybody brought a casserole and a secret. So yes this strain is basically a citrus-powered dynasty built on Skunk, Haze, and Northern Lights. A whole genealogy chart that smells like somebody zested a lemon over a science experiment.
Lemon Sportiff tastes like lemon peel, sweet citrus candy, a hint of herbal brightness, and a clean, almost sparkling finish. If “sunshine in a mason jar” were a flavor, this would be it. The terpenes running the show are Limonene, Pinene, and Caryophyllene. Together they create a profile that’s both energizing and steady. It’s like a pep talk from your favorite auntie who also keeps crystals in her purse. Patients often reach for Lemon Sportiff for mood, focus & clarity, fatigue, and mild pain relief. This is the strain you grab when you need to feel like the sun came out inside your chest.
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.’ What was your exact Lemon Sportiff second this strain made you stop, blink, and say “well damn”?
Affirmation: I rise with clarity. I move with purpose. I shine without apology.
“If self‑care requires a loan application, it’s not wellness. It’s a scam with eucalyptus.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling the Wellness Industrial Complex until it admits it’s been robbing us blind like a raccoon in Lululemon leggings. Self‑care has evolved from “take a nap and drink some water” to “sell a kidney so you can afford a serum infused with moonlight, angel tears, and ethically sourced unicorn collagen.”
Every time I open Instagram, some wellness guru named Saffron Moonbeam is perched on a rock in Sedona telling me, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” Ma’am, I can’t even afford the cup. The cup is $89.99 and comes with a crystal straw that promises to “align my abundance chakra.” Meanwhile my bank account is over here whispering, “Your abundance chakra is over drafted by $37.12.”
Let’s take a guided tour through the self‑care items that the wellness industry swears I need. And the financial crimes they commit against my checking account.
$300 Serums-Apparently my face needs a potion made from fermented cloud vapor and the hopes of Scandinavian virgins. For $300, this serum better erase wrinkles, trauma, and student loans.
Sedona Retreats-“Reconnect with your inner child for only $4,999.” For $4,999 my inner child better come out doing taxes, laundry, and emotional labor.
Organic Herbal Teas-Why is tea $22 a bag? It’s leaves. Leaves! I can go outside and get leaves for free. Mississippi has leaves everywhere. I’m basically surrounded by generational wealth.
Crystal Water Bottles-$120 for a bottle with a rock in it. I can get a rock from my driveway. I can get a whole collection of rocks. I can start a rock museum.
Sound Baths-$75 to lay on the floor while someone hits a bowl with a spoon. I can do that at home with my cookware and a bad attitude.
Weighted Blankets-$200 to feel like a Victorian ghost is sitting on my chest. I can get that for free by thinking about my to‑do list.
Yoga Pants-$98 for leggings that roll down the second I inhale. For $98 they should hold me together emotionally, spiritually, and physically.
Let me tell you something. My ancestors did not survive polio, wars, and the Great Depression. So, I could spend half a paycheck on a jade roller that promises to “release facial tension.” My grandmother would rise from the grave. Slap the serum out of my hand and say, “Splash some cold water on your face and go sit down somewhere.” And honestly? She’d be right. Because self‑care is not supposed to require a credit check, a payment plan, or a GoFundMe titled ‘Help Me Achieve Inner Peace.’
Sometimes self‑care is drinking water. Taking a nap. Ignoring people. Eating a snack. Telling the world “no” with your whole chest. And none of that costs $300. Bowl rung. Crystal shattered. Sedona canceled. Thanks for reading! What’s your most outrageously overpriced “self‑care” moment? And did it at least come with a free sample or a spiritual awakening, or nah?
Affirmation: I am whole. I am worthy. And I do not need a $300 serum to glow. My radiance is free. My peace is priceless. And my bank account deserves rest too.
“Even on my messiest days, I am still becoming someone I’m proud of.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Today we’re grilling up another episode of Southern‑chaotic mental health excellence. And this time we’re serving it on a Mental Health Bingo Card hotter than a Mississippi parking lot in July. And all because my brain apparently woke up this morning and said, “Let’s play a game.” Not a fun game like spades or Uno where you can cuss your family out and still get invited to Thanksgiving. But a full‑blown, unhinged round of “Let’s play Mental Health Bingo.” And I, being the responsible adult I pretend to be, just sighed and said, “Sure. Why not. I’ve survived worse. Like Mississippi humidity and group texts.” I printed my little bingo card. Took one look at it and immediately whispered, “Oh Lord. I’ve already got three in a row and it’s not even noon.”
Here are the 10 spaces on my Mental Health Bingo card this week. Each one earned with the grace of a raccoon in a Dollar General parking lot.
Cried in the car-Bonus points because it was in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru.
Forgot to eat-But remembered coffee, cannabis, chaos, and anxiety.
Overshared with a stranger-The cashier now knows my childhood wounds.
Started a new hobby at 3 a.m.-Crochet? Witchcraft? Who knows.
Reorganized the entire house-Instead of dealing with my emotions.
Googled symptoms-Diagnosed myself with 14 conditions and a personality I don’t have.
Had a fake argument in the shower-And won.
Stared at the wall for 27 minutes-Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything.
Said “I’m fine” while crying-A classic. A staple. A cultural artifact.
Therapy homework not done-But I did alphabetize my spices.
By 4 p.m., I had a full, glorious, diagonal BINGO like the emotionally unstable champion I am. So naturally, I strutted into therapy like I had just won the Olympics. I sat down. Crossed my legs like a Southern auntie about to spill tea, and said, “Ma’am I got BINGO.” And I slid that card across the table like it was a winning lottery ticket.
My therapist’s response? She looked at it. She looked at me. She looked back at it. Then she said, “Well I’m proud of you for tracking your patterns. I’m slightly concerned that you blacked out an entire row before breakfast. But I admire the commitment. This is the most enthusiastic self-reporting I’ve ever seen. Should I congratulate you? Or schedule an extra session?” Then she added, “Also, please stop oversharing with strangers. That woman at Walgreens did not need to know about your existential crisis over toothpaste.”
And as I left therapy, I swear I heard my ancestors whisper, “We survived plagues, wars, and the Great Depression. But this? This bingo card? This is new.” But listen. If healing is a journey, then I’m out here collecting stamps like a chaotic little passport official. And if Mental Health Bingo is wrong, I don’t want to be right. BINGO, baby.
And as I walked out of therapy clutching my laminated Mental Health Bingo card like it was the Declaration of Independence, something in me shifted. I felt accomplished. Victorious. Slightly unhinged. But in a cute way. Like a raccoon wearing lip gloss. Some people collect stamps. Some people collect crystals. Some people collect red flags like they’re Pokémon. But me? I collect emotional plot twists.
Every square on that bingo card was a tiny little badge of honor. Proof that I am out here doing the absolute most with the absolute least. I’m surviving on vibes, caffeine, cannabis, and the sheer audacity to keep showing up. And I’m proud of me. Not the Pinterest version of me. Not the “I have my life together” LinkedIn version of me. Not the “I only cry on weekends” version of me. No. I’m proud of the version of me who wakes up every day and chooses to keep going. Even when my brain is acting like a Walmart intercom system glitching during a thunderstorm.
I’m proud of the me who laughs through the chaos. Who heals crooked but heals anyway. Who turns breakdowns into blog posts. And therapy homework into performance art. So yeah, I got BINGO. And next week? I might get blackout. But that’s growth. Card stamped. Healing in progress. Thanks for reading! What square on your own mental health bingo card did you hit this week? And did you earn it with the chaotic flair of a true Southern champion?
Affirmation: I celebrate my progress. Honor my humanity. And allow joy to exist even in the chaos.
“Awareness is the first step toward healing. And healing is a community effort.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Call the ancestors. Today, we’re talking about National Opioid Awareness Day. And we’re doing it in full Southern-sass, porch‑swing truth‑telling mode. Grab your sweet tea, your emotional support cat, and maybe a biscuit for stability. Because this one’s gonna be equal parts hilarious, heartfelt, and holy‑ghost serious.
The truth is this. National Opioid Awareness Day exists because too many families have empty chairs at the dinner table. Too many mamas have cried into dish towels. Too many communities have buried dreams that should’ve lived.
This day is recognized to honor the lives lost. Uplift the ones still fighting. And remind the rest of us that addiction is not a moral failure. It’s a public health crisis that deserves compassion, resources, and loud, unapologetic awareness. But you know me. I can’t stay solemn for long. My ancestors didn’t raise me to be quiet or boring. Now let’s get sassy about it.
Let me tell you something. If the opioid epidemic were a person, it’d be that messy cousin who shows up uninvited. Eats all the potato salad. Steals your good Tupperware. And then has the nerve to ask for gas money. It’s rude. It’s destructive. And it’s been wreaking havoc across the nation like a raccoon with a grudge and access to your trash cans. This is the day we collectively say, “Not today, Satan. Not in my house. Not in my holler. And not in my county.”
It’s the day communities come together with churches, schools, aunties, cousins, and the neighbor who always knows everybody’s business. To learn. Support. And fight back with education, prevention, and love. Because love is louder than stigma. And community is stronger than crisis. And Southern women? We don’t play when it comes to protecting our people.
Addiction doesn’t care about zip codes. Because recovery is possible. Because shame kills. But awareness saves. Every life deserves a chance to come home. Sit at the table. And say, “I made it.” And if we don’t talk about it, we lose more than we can bear.
And so here we stand. Charcoal still glowing. Sage still swirling. Ancestors still humming that low in a knowing tune they save for moments when truth hits bone-deep. National Opioid Awareness Day isn’t just a date on a calendar. It’s a call to rise up like your grandma’s biscuits in a hot oven. It’s a reminder that we don’t get through hard things alone. And we sure don’t heal in silence.
Silence is a thief. Stigma is a liar. And shame? Shame is that dusty old cousin who shows up to the family reunion wearing flip-flops and bad decisions. While trying to tell everybody how to live. We don’t listen to shame in this house. We listen to compassion, community, and the ancestors who whisper, “Baby, keep going.”
We honor the ones we’ve lost. We uplift the ones still fighting. We stand guard over the ones who haven’t yet found their way home. And we do it with humor, heart, with Southern stubbornness. And with the kind of love that refuses to back down. It’s the kind of love that will fight a bear, a politician, and a malfunctioning church crockpot all before breakfast.
So today, light your charcoal. Sprinkle your sage. Call your ancestors. And then take one bold step toward awareness, healing, and being the kind of person who refuses to let crisis win. Because this story isn’t over. This fight isn’t finished. And this our community is louder, stronger, and more determined than any epidemic that ever tried to break us. Now excuse me while I drop this mic like it’s hotter than a Mississippi August sidewalk. We see you. We love you. We’re fighting with you. And we’re not done yet.
Affirmation: I honor the lives affected, uplift the ones still fighting, and choose compassion over judgment every single time.
“Sometimes the only thing keeping me from losing my already lost religion is two Oklahoma women yelling about petty grievances.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Invoke the ancestors. Preferably the messy ones. The ones who show up wearing house shoes. Clutching a gas‑station fountain drink. And whispering, “You’re gonna wanna sit down for this one.”
Because today, we gather in the sacred, humid, mosquito‑infested, spiritually charged arena to praise. Roast. And spiritually hydrate the chaotic holiness that is the I’ve Had It Podcast. The only place where two white liberal women from the red MAGA plains of Oklahoma have somehow built a sanctuary for every exhausted blue‑dot soul trying to survive in a country where people still proudly drink out of Stanley cups like it’s a personality trait. Let me set the table like MeeMaw used to that is loud. And with sweet tea strong enough to dissolve enamel.
Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan aren’t just podcasters. They are the patron saints of Petty Grievances. The matriarchs of Messy Liberation. And the spiritual mothers of every liberal woman trapped in a red state. While trying not to throat‑punch someone at the grocery store.
Jennifer, the sarcastically blunt atheist queen, speaks with the kind of clarity that only comes from years of saying, “No, actually, that is stupid” out loud. She’s the type of woman who could walk into a revival tent. Sneeze. And accidentally deconstruct someone’s entire theology. On a side note I’ll also say that she is an Olympic level Pickle Ball Champion like we’ve never seen before in the history of the world.
Then there’s Pumps. Lord help us all. Pumps is a recovering evangelical, the HBIC (Head Beaver In Charge), the teeny weenieologist, the MeeMaw Meat Curtains because she is much older than Jennifer. And apparently the patron saint of Asexuality in the Bible Belt. Her last sexual encounter was somewhere around 1,000 days ago. And Jennifer multiplies that number tenfold with each episode until the math starts giving Old Testament genealogy. We’re approaching, “And on the 40,000th day, Pumps rested.”
And presiding over this circus of holy chaos is Kiley. The beautiful lesbian gaytriot producer who keeps the entire operation from combusting. She’s the glue, the duct tape, the Queer Logistics Coordinator who ensures Jennifer and Pumps don’t accidentally start a small fire while recording. She produces the hilarious fuckery with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how chaotic these two can be.
As a white liberal sarcastic woman myself from the red MAGA state of Mississippi, these ladies have become my emotional support podcast. They take the isolation of wanting equal rights for everyone. While surrounded by neighbors who think democracy is optional. And turn it into a family. A loud, hilarious politically petty family that supports all marginalized groups and stands up for democracy. Despite the red hatred swirling around them.
And let me tell you. And their nicknames for politicians? Baby, they speak fluent Southern shade. People like Donald “Cankles McTaco Tits” Trump, Moses Mike Grindr Johnson, the late Lindsey “Lady” Graham, “Big Titty” Bryon Knoem, “Smokey-eyed sociopath” JD Vance, “Lyin’” Ted Cruz, Flamboyant Jesse “Lady” Waters with Fox News, Natalie “The Bunny Boiler” Harp, Markwayne “Booster Box” Mullin, and others. I heard that recently they both spoke with Mitch “Dead Not Dead” McConnell for twenty minutes from his life support rehabilitation unit. They roast public figures with the same energy my Aunt Linda uses when she says, “I’m not saying she’s trashy. But she does own a leopard‑print Bible cover.”
They expose the closetocracy, the folks who legislate against the very community they enjoy on weekends, with surgical precision and the comedic timing only two women who have truly had it can deliver. Are they crass? Yes. Do they speak my language? Absolutely. Do they have a low tolerance for stupidity? Honey, they have a negative tolerance.
And Pumps, sweet Pumps, if she would stop vaping like she’s trying to summon a Civil War ghost, Jennifer might finally unclench. And if she would please stop pooping in Styrofoam cups like she’s conducting a science fair project, the online audience would stop peeing on ourselves from laughing. Get it together, Pumps. At least the saggin’ dragons are secured.
These women have been my morning oxygen for over a year. They are my people that are hilarious. And, at times, inappropriate. Unfiltered. Compassionate. And petty in all the right places. If you’re a prude. Easily offended. Or still clinging to conservative Christianity where some Christians use scripture as a mascot for cruelty, this is not your ministry.
But if you’re like me a blue dot in a red state. A queer person whose family can’t quite figure out acceptance. Or someone who needs laughter more than judgment. These ladies feel like home. They are the family I needed. The humor I craved. And the reminder that democracy is worth fighting for even when surrounded by folks who think Jesus rode a dinosaur. And if island living as a blue dot in a red state is what it takes, then baby, I’ll take my new family without question.
So let me say this with the full force of my ancestors, my sass, my trauma, my cats, and my last functioning nerve. The I’ve Had It Podcast isn’t just entertainment. It’s survival. It’s community. It’s the comedic resistance movement for every marginalized person living in a state where Hobby Lobby aisles are filled with people who think equality is a threat to their throw pillows.
Jennifer, Pumps, and Kiley have built a refuge for the tired, the queer, the liberal, the fed‑up, the chronically sarcastic, and the spiritually dehydrated. They’ve given us permission to laugh at the absurdity of our political landscape. To call out hypocrisy with humor. And to find joy in the middle of a country that feels like it’s being run by people who failed eighth‑grade civics. And who ate boogers and glue but never outgrew those behaviors.
I will be a loyal gaytriot as long as these ladies are around. I will follow them into the trenches of democracy, petty grievances, and Pumps’ colon‑control journey. I will take this island living. This blue dot existence. And choose my new family without hesitation.
Thank you, ladies, for your humor, your compassion, and your unapologetic refusal to tolerate bullshit in this tumultuous time. You are the laughter that keeps us fighting. CACAW!!!! Mic dropped. Floor cracked. Humidity rising. Ancestors hollering, “That’s Right, Baby!” Thanks for reading! Please tune in every day to the I’ve Had It podcast for political news with lots of humor.
Affirmation: I honor my truth, humor, identity, and my chosen family. I choose joy. I choose community. And I choose to laugh loudly. Even in the places that try to silence me.
