LGBTQIA+

darnold1975

Happy Birthday, Copeland: The Preemie Who Became A Full-Sized Chaos Grenade

“From NICU royalty to Dollar Tree whistleblower. This child has never once entered a room quietly.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Today we honor the boy who arrived early. Stayed tiny. Scared the hell out of two moms. And then grew into an 11‑year‑old whose armpits now smell like a possum that lost a custody battle with a dumpster. Let me take y’all back.

Two moms. One hospital. One baby who looked at the world, shrugged, and said, “Yeah I’m not ready for all that. Y’all go on home without me.” We were terrified. We were exhausted. We were Googling things like “Can a baby be this small and still have an attitude?” And Copeland? He was in his little NICU throne like, “Bring me my warm lights and my beeping machines. I shall join the household when I am good and ready.”

Fast‑forward 11 years. This once‑delicate, fragile, tiny miracle now smells, at times, worse than the up‑the‑back diaper blowouts that used to make me question my will to live. And I say that with love. And trauma. And a gag reflex that still twitches when he walks by after baseball practice.

Copeland is funny. Not “ha-ha cute kid funny.” No. He is feral‑comedian funny. He is Dollar Tree Public Announcement funny. This is the same child who once let the entire store know his momma farted with gusto. And not only did he announce it. He narrated it like a nature documentary. He said, “This is the sound of a mother releasing her soul into the wild.”

He keeps me on my toes. He keeps me humble. He keeps me praying. We make primitive tools together like we’re auditioning for Naked and Afraid: Mississippi Edition. We shoot fireworks like two people who absolutely should not be trusted with fire. We have Nerf gun wars that end with me questioning my cardio and my life choices. We play baseball. Where he hits the ball like he’s trying to send it back to the NICU to apologize for the stress he caused.

And then. There is his special talent. The one he inherited from the diaper‑blowout era. The one he wields with pride. Farting on my leg while sitting in my lap. He does it. He waits. He watches my face. He studies the gag. He cherishes the moment. It is his art. His calling. His legacy. And honestly? It’s poetic justice. Because I gagged changing his diapers. And now he gags me recreationally.

But beneath the chaos, the comedy, the bodily functions, the Dollar Tree humiliation, the fireworks, the Nerf ambushes, and the prehistoric tool‑making. There is this boy. This beautiful, bright‑souled, hilarious, life‑loving boy who laughs like the world is a gift. And loves like he’s never known fear.

His joy is loud. His spirit is huge. His light is blinding in the best way. And I hope, with every fiber of my momma heart, that nothing in this world ever dims that light. Because I am lucky. So damn lucky. To be one of his three moms. To watch him grow. To watch him shine. To watch him fart and then blame me in public.

Happy Birthday, Copeland. You came into this world early, tiny, fragile, and already acting like you had a contract with the NICU. Two moms stood there terrified. Praying. Bargaining. Googling. And trying not to fall apart while you lounged under warm lights like a miniature king who simply wasn’t ready to clock into Earth yet. You were the baby we had to leave behind. The one who taught us that love can be fierce and terrified at the same time. The one who showed us that miracles don’t always arrive on schedule. Sometimes they show up early and demand special lighting.

And now? Now you are 11 years old and built like a walking plot twist. You are loud. You are wild. You are funny in a way that feels spiritually assigned. You smell like puberty is trying to take you out. You fart with the confidence of a grown man who pays property taxes. You love life like it’s a buffet. And you’re first in line. You laugh like joy is your native tongue.

You are the child who will announce to an entire Dollar Tree that your momma farted with gusto. And then take a bow like you just delivered a TED Talk. You are the child who will sit in my lap. Rip one on my leg. And watch my soul leave my body like you’re studying the effects for a science fair project. You are the child who builds primitive tools with me like we’re preparing for the apocalypse. Shoots fireworks like we’re trying to get banned from the county. And plays baseball like you’re sending the ball back to the NICU to say, “Look at me now.”

You are chaos wrapped in kindness. Mischief wrapped in magic. Humor wrapped in heart. A miracle wrapped in a boy who somehow manages to be both my greatest joy and my greatest olfactory challenge.

And I hope, with everything in me, that nothing ever dims your light. Not fear. Not doubt. Not the world. Not the noise. Not the storms. Not the shadows. Not even the puberty funk that is currently trying to overthrow your household. Because your light is rare. Your joy is rare. Your spirit is rare. And the world needs every bit of it.

I am lucky to be one of your three moms. Lucky to witness your life. Lucky to survive your smells. Lucky to be chosen by a boy who once fit in the palm of my hand. And now fills entire rooms with laughter, love, and the occasional biological weapon.

So, here’s to you, Copeland. To the preemie who became a powerhouse. To the NICU baby who became a legend. To the tiny fighter who became the funniest, wildest, brightest soul I’ve ever known.

May your life stay loud. May your joy stay reckless. May your heart stay open. May your spirit stay unbreakable. And may your farts, just once, miss my leg. Happy Birthday, my boy. You are the story I’ll never stop telling. And the punchline I’ll never stop laughing at. Thanks for reading!

Affirmation: I honor the chaos, comedy, the cosmic joy of raising a boy whose spirit is brighter than his armpits are deadly. I am blessed. Chosen. And fully equipped to mother this miracle with humor, grit, and Febreze.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

https://suno.com/s/BWb1eV0x632d8rYi

darnold1975

Alcohol Awareness: The Gospel According to My Cats

“Awareness saves lives. Snacks save morale.”

-The Feline Public Health Department

Light the sage. Hide the breakables. My three cats, Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell, have decided they are the official spokes‑animals for Alcohol Awareness. And they came prepared with statistics.

They just held a household meeting complete with a gavel, a flip chart, and Coco eating the pointer. And they are about to inform me that we are now hosting Alcohol Awareness Week. I didn’t volunteer. I wasn’t consulted. Piper simply slapped a pamphlet on the table like she was serving a warrant and said, “Mother, it’s Alcohol Awareness time, and the people need us.” If anyone can talk about risky behavior, it’s the animals who sprint across linoleum floors at 3 a.m. like they’re late for a rave.

Piper jumps onto the table like she’s chairing a congressional hearing.

“Mother, while adjusting her imaginary glasses, did you know more than half of adults in the U.S. drink alcohol? And 17% binge drink?” She pauses for dramatic effect. “That means 17% of humans are out here acting like me when I see an unattended plate of chicken. Also, 178,000 people die each year from excessive alcohol use. That’s more than the number of times Coco has tried to steal your snacks.”  Source: CDC — Excessive Alcohol Use Data 

Coco waddles in dragging a bag of treats like she’s smuggling contraband.

“Listen, I’m here to talk about underage drinking. But first, do we have chips? Because this is heavy.” She informs the room that in 2022, 5.9 million youth ages 12–20 drank alcohol beyond ‘just a few sips’. Mother, that’s too many. Even I know that. And 19.7% of youth ages 14–15 have had at least one drink. At that age, I was still learning how to jump on the counter.” Source: NSDUH / Alcohol Infographic 2024 

Tinkerbell perches on the highest shelf, looking like she’s about to assign homework.

“Research shows that people who start drinking before age 15 are 3.5 times more likely to develop alcohol use disorder later in life. Which is why I supervise the boys. They need guidance. And boundaries. And fewer snacks.” Source: Alcohol Infographic 2024 

This household stays loud, proud, and educational, the cats insisted on adding:

  • Alcohol misuse affects every organ in the body. Source: NIAAA Alcohol Facts & Statistics 
  • Underage drinking remains a major public health issue. Source: NSDUH 2024 / SAMHSA 
  • Accurate, stigma‑free information saves lives. Especially in LGBTQIA+ communities and the Deep South. Where misinformation spreads faster than Piper can knock over a cup.

Piper: “Moderation is key. Also, naps solve more problems than alcohol ever will.”

Coco: “Alcohol slows reaction time. I cannot risk missing a falling snack.”

Tinkerbell: “Knowledge is power. And power is knowing where the treats are hidden.”

Piper stands on her hind legs like she’s giving a TED Talk.

Piper: “Stay informed. Stay safe. And stop believing your cousin’s Facebook posts.”

Coco: “Stay hydrated. Preferably with water. Or gravy.”

Tinkerbell: “Stay fabulous. And for the love of all things holy, lock the liquor cabinet.”

Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell gather themselves on the couch like a furry Supreme Court. And ready to issue a ruling on the family hypocrisy they’ve witnessed for years. Piper clears her throat first, because of course she does. “Mother, we simply cannot understand how certain humans in this family will clutch their pearls over you using medical cannabis. A literal plant. But somehow quote the Bible like it’s a coupon code to excuse drinking and driving, and every chaotic decision that would get us grounded for nine lifetimes.”

Coco nods solemnly with crumbs on her chin, “They called you a ‘druggie,’ but then hopped in the car after communion wine like Jesus Himself was the designated driver.”

And Tinkerbell, perched high like a judgmental librarian, adds, “If scripture can be stretched far enough to justify a DUI, then surely it can handle a little THC for pain relief. We’re cats, Mother, but even we know the math isn’t mathing.”

And that’s how my cats continue to point out and educate on the dangers of alcohol. And the hardcore hypocrisy in the south. And, yes, specifically in my own family. Thanks for reading! And never let them silence you.

Affirmation: I honor my body, my boundaries, and my community by choosing knowledge over shame.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

CBD Awareness: My Cats Said I’m Legally Required to Calm Down

 “My cats said CBD won’t get me high. But it will keep me from acting like a Walmart parking lot Greek tragedy. And honestly, that feels like growth.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the ancestors lean in the doorway with their arms crossed. The moment that smoke hit the ceiling fan, my household convened an emergency session of the Feline Administration to discuss CBD Awareness Month. And the cats had notes.

Piper, Coco, and Tinkerbell marched in like three county commissioners who did not read the briefing packet. But absolutely intend to argue about it. Piper arrived first. She’s was dragging a legal pad she stole from my desk. She hopped onto the coffee table. Cleared her throat and announced, “CBD Awareness Month is important because humans are stressed, chaotic, and prone to hollering at inanimate objects. We must intervene.”

Coco strutted in next. And late on purpose. She believes time is a social construct. And also because she was busy knocking something off a shelf. She plopped down. Tail flicking and said, “CBD is fine. But why do y’all keep buying the expensive treats and then acting surprised when I eat the whole bag?”

Tinkerbell arrived last with the energy of a Southern auntie who already decided the meeting was foolish. But came for the snacks. She sat like a sphinx and declared, “CBD is the plant spirit that keeps y’all from crying in the Walmart parking lot. We support it.”

The Cats’ Official CBD Purposes

According to the Feline Administration, CBD has three sacred functions.

  • Stress & anxiety relief-“Because y’all vibrate like a microwave on popcorn mode.”
  • Chaos reduction-“In theory, though, I’ve seen no evidence.”
  • Increased compliance with feline demands- Tinkerbell insists this is scientifically proven by staring at me until I give her treats.

Then they expanded the list like they were reading off a menu.

  • Calms the humans-“Because y’all vibrate like a cheap motel air conditioner.”
  • Inflammation & pain-“Your knees sound like a haunted rocking chair.”
  • Sleep support-“You need it. We need you to need it.”
  • Mood regulation-“You get dramatic,” all three say in unison.
  • General human foolishness-“Self-explanatory.”

They also want it noted that CBD helps humans stop doom scrolling. Stop overthinking texts. Stop reorganizing the pantry at 3 a.m. and stop crying at dog food commercials. It gives you the ability to forgive yourself for eating an entire sleeve of cookies. And the mystical moment when you realize you are the drama. But also the solution.

Piper hopped onto the table with a binder labeled CBD: A Non‑Psychoactive Situation. Coco dragged in a whiteboard she absolutely cannot read. Tinkerbell arrived late again, ready to deliver a TED Talk titled Calm Down, Human: The Plant Is Legal Now.

Piper began: “CBD is federally legal as long as it comes from hemp and contains less than 0.3% THC. Which means, human, you can stop whispering like you’re buying contraband behind the Piggly Wiggly.”

Coco: “It does not alter your mind. It alters your attitude. And frankly, we support that.”

Tinkerbell: “It’s non‑psychoactive. Which means you’re not getting high. You’re getting functional. You’re getting emotionally moisturized. You’re getting less likely to cry over a dropped chicken nugget.”

The Guidelines (Because Apparently I Needed Rules)

Piper, now self‑appointed Director of Human Regulation, laid out the official policies.

  • Do not give CBD to cats without a vet’s approval. “We are perfect as‑is.”
  • Humans should use CBD responsibly. “Meaning don’t take it and then try to assemble furniture.”
  • CBD is not a personality trait. Tinkerbell says this while staring directly at me.
  • If CBD helps you chill, hydrate, and mind your business, the cats approve. Especially the “mind your business” part.

Then they sat me down like I was on trial.

Piper said, “We’ve observed the pacing. The muttering. The dramatic sighing. And the emotional support snacks. Clearly, CBD awareness is overdue.”

Coco added, “And while we support your journey, we would also like to know why you get the calming treats and we get vibes.”

Tinkerbell stared at me unblinking, like she was reading my aura and finding overdue library books in it. She then hopped onto the altar (my coffee table). Placed one paw on my forehead, and proclaimed:

“May your joints be loose. Your sleep be deep. Your snacks be plentiful. And your spirit be unbothered. May CBD soften your edges but not your boundaries. And may you never, ever forget to refill the treat jar.”

The sage crackled. The ancestors nodded. And the cats declared CBD Awareness Month officially adjourned. Piper knocked over a plant. Coco demanded lunch. Tinkerbell stole my pen. The plant is innocent. The human is the problem. Thanks for reading! Keep medicating.

Affirmation: “I am calm, collected, and legally compliant. I soften my edges, not my boundaries, and I do it with the confidence of a cat who just knocked something over on purpose.”

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

He Is Risen. And So Is My Blood Pressure Watching Christians Misquote Scripture Again

“If Jesus didn’t need help rising from the dead, He definitely doesn’t need help judging His children.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Let the ancestors lean in. And the nonsense scatter like roaches when the kitchen light flips on. I’m clearing the air. Clearing my spirit. And clearing out anybody who came in here with judgmental energy, weaponized scripture, or a Facebook theology degree. Today we’re telling the truth with love, humor, and just enough Southern heat to make the devil fan himself.

Every year, Easter rolls around and suddenly half the conservative Christians in the South start acting like they’ve been personally hired by Jesus HR to conduct performance reviews on the entire population. They show up to church in pastel outfits so loud they could blind a deacon armed with judgment, casserole, and a Bible verse they skimmed once during Vacation Bible School in 1994.

Meanwhile, Jesus is over here like, “I rose from the dead to bring hope and liberation. Not to watch y’all turn my message into a neighborhood watch program for people who don’t look, love, or live like you.” But bless their hearts. They really believe Easter is about policing everyone else’s salvation. Like Jesus outsourced His job to a committee of pearl‑clutchers with Wi‑Fi.

Easter is supposed to be the celebration of renewal, liberation, and radical compassion. He was a man who literally washed feet. Fed strangers. And hung out with the outcasts. And provided a message of hope for the poor, the hungry, the immigrant, the traumatized, the eccentric, the ethnically diverse, and the folks society shoved to the margins.

Jesus was the original “bring everybody to the table” host. He didn’t ask for dress codes, doctrinal purity, or a background check. He said, “Come as you are.” And meant it. Not “Come as you are, unless Brenda doesn’t approve of your haircut.”

Somewhere along the way, though, a whole crowd of folks decided Jesus needed personal judges. A volunteer morality police. A neighborhood watch for rainbow flags. A holiness HOA. A spiritual TSA checkpoint. And they signed up like it was a Black Friday sale.

They twist His words like balloon animals. Weaponize scripture like it’s a Nerf gun. And act like Jesus is running a multi‑level marketing scheme where the top sellers get a crown and a parking spot in heaven. They weaponize His teachings against LGBTQIA+ folks, immigrants, people of color, the poor, or anyone who doesn’t fit their “approved” mold.

And then they have the audacity, the sheer sanctified audacity, to say they’re doing it “in Jesus’ name.” Jesus didn’t ask for helpers. He didn’t post a job listing for “Assistant Judge. An unpaid internship where you must hate fun.” If anything, he said the opposite such as, “Sit down. Be humble. Love people. And stop acting like you’re the CEO of Heaven’s HR department.”

Let’s talk about the rainbow for a second. Conservative Christians love to act like the rainbow was stolen, borrowed, or misused by queer folks. Jesus made the rainbow. The gays just accessorized it better. And queer folks are honoring the original design with more creativity, joy, and community than the people who claim ownership of it. If Jesus didn’t want the rainbow to be a symbol of diversity, unity, and hope, he wouldn’t have made it look like the world’s happiest flag.

Jesus was pro‑poor, pro‑immigrant, pro‑outcast, pro‑community, pro‑healing, pro‑inclusion, and pro‑“stop being hateful and go feed somebody.” He was the original DEI ( Diversity, Equity, Inclusion) department. Long before corporate America slapped it on a PowerPoint slide. He didn’t need a committee. He didn’t need a board vote. He didn’t need a church newsletter. He just did the work.

Christians love to toss around the phrase “hate the sin, love the sinner” like it fell straight out of Jesus’ mouth and onto a Hobby Lobby wall sign. But it did not. That line is nowhere in the Bible. Not in Genesis. Not in Psalms. Not in Leviticus. And not even hidden in the fine print of Revelation. The idea is loosely connected to Christian teachings. Sure. The actual phrase traces back to St. Augustine of Hippo in 424 AD. And it didn’t get its modern glow‑up until Mahatma Gandhi repeated a version of it centuries later. So, if folks want to use it, fine. But let’s stop pretending it’s scripture when it’s clearly not. As one source puts it, the exact phrase simply isn’t in the Bible (Catholic.com, 2026). In other words, quit assigning Jesus quotes he never said. Especially when they’re being used as a permission slip for judgment.

This Easter, let’s remember what actually happened. A brown, Middle‑Eastern, homeless, anti‑authoritarian healer rose from the dead to liberate humanity. Not to give conservative Christians a seasonal excuse to cosplay as Heaven’s security guards. Easter is about resurrection. Not regulation. Liberation. Not legislation. Compassion. Not condemnation.

If Jesus wanted personal judges, he would’ve hired them. Instead, he told everybody to love their neighbor and mind their business. Let’s celebrate Easter the way Jesus intended. With open arms, hearts, tables, and absolutely no volunteer applications for Assistant Judge of the Universe. He’s got that job covered. And the rainbow says the gays are doing just fine. Thanks for reading! Stay spiritually focus instead of judgmental.

Affirmation: I walk in the kind of love, compassion, and radical inclusion Jesus actually taught. Not the edited, fear‑based version some folks try to pass off as scripture.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Boob Boy, The Bondi, and the Big Ol’ Bus They Got Thrown Under

“When you build your house on hypocrisy, don’t be shocked when the storm hits first.” 

-Southern Gay Wisdom

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Brace your spirit. Today’s sermon is brought to you by the Holy Ghost of “I Told Y’all.” The Book of Southern Gay Prophets. And the ancestral spirits who only show up when the drama is premium‑grade. The air is thick. The wind is petty. And the hypocrisy is rising like steam off a Mississippi driveway in July. Kristi Noem and Pam Bondi are out here doing the MAGA Walk of Shame. And the universe itself said, “Roll camera.”

Kristi “I Love Traditional Marriage Unless It’s Mine and Puppy Killer” Noem is over here smiling like she’s hosting a Mar‑a‑Lago bake sale. While her entire political career collapses like a Dollar Tree folding chair. Pam “I Have the Files-Wait, No I Don’t-What Files?” Bondi is shuffling papers like she’s auditioning for a Florida reboot of Law & Order: Girl, Please. And the hypocrisy? So thick you could spread it on a biscuit.

These two strutted into the week like they were the headliners of the Family Values Revival Tour. And strutted out like they’d been personally escorted offstage by the Holy Spirit and a security guard named Earl. The way they both got tossed under the Trump Bus with no seatbelt, no warning, no emotional support casserole, and not even a lukewarm dish from the church ladies is nothing but whew.

The ancestors aren’t just giggling. They’re hollering. They’re wheezing. They’re slapping their knees and saying, “See? Didn’t we tell y’all?” And now the smoke rising today? It’s not from the grill. It’s from the fall of two of America’s most dramatic ‘family values’ performers finally catching up to the truth they tried to outrun. Light the charcoal cause history is happening.

Let’s begin with Kristi “Traditional Marriage” Noem, who woke up this morning as the Director of Homeland Security. And then went to bed as the Director of “Girl, What Happened?” She strutted into that press conference like she was about to announce a new casserole recipe. Her bless your heart chin high. Hair sprayed into a helmet. Confidence radiating like she’d just won Miss Cornbread 2024. 

Kristi Noem is the same woman who smiled her Mar‑a‑Lago smile while cheering on the cruelty of ICE like it was a halftime show. And she really thought she was untouchable. She encouraged the worst of it. The raids, fear, brutality, and the “show them no mercy” energy that echoed the darkest chapters of history. She did it with a grin. With a camera‑ready face. And with the confidence of someone who believed she’d never be held accountable.

She wanted to take anything into custody that breathed wrong in Trump’s direction. Which included blow‑up animals, parade balloons, inflatable flamingos, and anything that dared to stand against the man she treated like a holy relic. She acted like Donald Trump wasn’t the con artist the entire country warned her about. She acted like loyalty to him was a retirement plan. But the check bounced.

And then Trump hit her with a “You’re fired!” Which had that same energy as a Dollar Tree cashier clocking out early. Because the register froze and they simply don’t get paid enough for this. But the real plot twist? Her husband, Mr. “Family Values” himself, is now living his best life as a cross‑dressing boob boy. And honestly? Good for him. Somebody in that marriage deserved joy, sequins, and breathable fabric.

Meanwhile, Pam “I Have the Files on My Desk” Bondi is out here giving us the greatest trilogy since Lord of the Rings like:

  1. “I have the files on my desk.”
  2. “I don’t have the files on my desk.”
  3. “What are the files?”

Ma’am. This is not a Nancy Drew novel. This is not a Hardy Boys mystery. This is a Florida woman with a ring light and a dream. Here’s the part that hits the deepest nerve. Pam Bondi who spent years doing the “I don’t have the files” shuffle, while survivors of Epstein’s abuse begged for acknowledgment she never gave. She never even acknowledged the Epstein survivors. Not when she was Florida Attorney General. Not when they begged for accountability. Not when they asked for meetings. Not when they asked for justice. 

Survivors and advocates have said for years that she ignored them. Dismissed them. And prioritized political loyalty over human suffering. And now she’s out here crying on camera about being “betrayed?” The only betrayal that mattered was the one she committed against the people who needed her most. Public criticism has followed her for years. Because she didn’t meet with them. She didn’t prioritize them. And she didn’t use her power to pursue accountability when she had the chance.

And so here we stand. We’re watching Kristi Noem and Pam Bondi wobbling down the political driveway tumbling down the marble steps of their own hypocrisy. Like two contestants eliminated in the first round of a reality show nobody asked for. Their mascara is running. With their heels in their hands whispering, “Donald, please don’t do this.” Donald Trump, patron saint of Save Myself First Ministries, simply adjusted his tie and said, “Ladies, I love you, but I love me more.” And he tossed them off the political porch like yesterday’s potato salad. The silence that followed could’ve been bottled and sold as a conservative Christian essential oil.

They’ve been politically guillotined by the very man they worshipped like their Orange Mussolini Messiah Daddy. The same man who told them he’d protect them. The same man who said he’d always be there. The same man who turned around and cut them loose the second it benefited him. Pam and Kristi, the country wasn’t lying to you. He was. So, put that in your Epstein pipe and smoke it.

And this is only the beginning. The fall of Trump and the collapse of MAGA isn’t a single moment. It’s a season. A reckoning. A slow‑motion implosion of every grifter, every sycophant, every “family values” fraud who thought proximity to power would save them. Two down. Many more to go.

And as the dust settles. As the excuses crumble. And the crocodile tears dry on the marble floors of Mar‑a‑Lago, let the record show That the South remembers. The gays remember. The survivors remember. And history remembers.

And now I’ll say this with my full chest, “Kristi, Pam, Bye Felicias! May the truth follow you louder than your lies ever did. May accountability find you faster than your loyalty found Trump. And may the fall of this corrupt movement be as dramatic as the chaos it unleashed.” Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts on these two useless human beings with no souls?

Affirmation: I release the chaos of hypocrites. The noise of liars. And the weight of other people’s fake values. I walk in truth, glitter, and ancestral clarity. 

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

The Episcopalian Who Out‑Christianed the Christians: A Mississippi Testimony

“Real Christianity isn’t loud. It’s loving. And sometimes the holiest thing you can do is tell the powerful to stop hurting people.”

-This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Let it sizzle like it’s overheard one too many “I’m not racist, but-” conversations at a Mississippi church potluck. Today, we’re talking about a real Christian. Not the “I love Jesus but hate all his friends” variety we keep tripping over like abandoned folding chairs after a revival. We’re talking about Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde. A woman who doesn’t just quote Jesus. She actually acts like she’s met Him. And down here in the Deep South where some folks treat cruelty like it’s a spiritual gift and Trump like he’s the fourth member of the Trinity. That alone makes her a miracle.

When this current administration kicked off, conservative Christians across Mississippi were out here praising every act of political meanness like it was a new hymn added to the Baptist hymnal. Meanwhile, Bishop Budde, an Episcopalian with more backbone than a whole deacon board, stepped forward and said, “Sir, this cruelty is not of Christ.”

She didn’t whisper it. She didn’t hint at it. She didn’t hide behind “thoughts and prayers” like some folks do when they’re scared of losing tithe money. She pleaded. She begged. She called for mercy. Not for herself. But for the people who always get hit first and hardest. The black communities, brown communities, LGBTQ+ folks, immigrants, and anyone the powerful find convenient to step on.

While some pastors were busy auditioning to be Trump’s spiritual hype squad. Bishop Budde was out here saying, “Jesus didn’t die for y’all to act like this.” And she said it with the calm, steady authority of a woman who has held too many grieving families to ever confuse political power with moral truth.

Let me tell you something Mississippi already knows but refuses to admit. If Jesus came back tomorrow, half these conservative churches would call the police on Him before they offered Him a casserole. But Bishop Budde? She’d hand Him the pulpit and say, “Tell them what love really looks like.”

She doesn’t preach the Gospel like it’s a weapon. She preaches it like it’s a lifeline. Because it is. She doesn’t cherry‑pick scripture like she’s making a fruit salad. She doesn’t confuse judgment with holiness. She doesn’t treat marginalized people like theological inconveniences. She practices the radical hospitality Jesus modeled. Not the selective hospitality some folks down here prefer.

And that’s why her receiving the Trailblazer Award for Empowerment & Excellence at the 2026 Women of Impact Summit wasn’t just deserved. It was overdue. She didn’t win because she’s loud. She won because she’s consistent. She won because she’s courageous. She won because she’s Christ‑like in a world where that’s become rare enough to be newsworthy.

If conservative Christians in the Deep South ever paused their praise‑break for political cruelty long enough to listen, Bishop Budde could teach them a thing or two. Like Christianity is not a sport where you score points by judging strangers. That mercy is not weakness. That compassion is not political. That loving your neighbor doesn’t come with a footnote. That Jesus didn’t ask for campaign volunteers. He asked for disciples. But learning requires humility. And humility is in shorter supply around here than snow days.

So, here’s to Bishop Mariann Budde. The woman who stood up when others sat down. Who spoke truth when others swallowed it. And who practiced the Gospel while others weaponized it. While some folks were busy turning Christianity into a political fan club. She was out here reminding the world that love is the only theology Jesus ever graded. And if Mississippi ever wants to see what true Christianity looks like, it doesn’t need another rally. Another sermon about “family values,” or another yard sign. It just needs to look at Bishop Budde. A trailblazer. A truth‑teller. And living proof that the Gospel still has a pulse. Amen. Pass the cornbread. And somebody tell the deacons to sit down. The real Christians are speaking. Thanks for reading! What are your thoughts about the Bishop?

Affirmation: I stand firm in my truth. Rooted in compassion. Unbothered by cruelty. And guided by a love that refuses to shrink for anyone.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

No Kings: We Rise Loud. We Rise Messy. We Rise Anyway.

“I don’t need a crown to know my worth. I’ve survived too much to bow now.”

-This Puzzled Life, Patron Saint of Showing Up Anyway

 Light the charcoal, because apparently the nation has decided we’re doing this again. Another No Kings Protest. Another day where half the country shows up with handmade signs. The other half shows up with folding chairs, and everyone collectively agrees that monarchy is for fairy tales, not for a country where we can’t even agree on how to pronounce “pecan.”

I woke up this morning to the sound of my neighbor yelling, “Who took my sharpie?!” Which is how you know democracy is alive and well in the Deep South. Nothing says civic engagement like a grown man in pajama pants sprinting across the yard holding a poster board that says, “No Crowns, Just Accountability.” Bless it. 

Every No Kings protest starts the same way. Someone burns the first batch of hot dogs. Someone else insists they “know a shortcut.” And a third person is already crying because they forgot sunscreen and emotional stability at home. Meanwhile, I’m in the kitchen trying to pack snacks like I’m preparing for a Category 5 hurricane instead of a march. Because if there’s one thing I know about Southern protests, it is that you will get hungry and sweaty. And someone will absolutely try to hand you a pamphlet you did not ask for.

We arrive at the protest. Immediately I’m hit with the smell of sunscreen and determination. And at least three people who definitely pregamed with boxed wine. There’s always one person with a megaphone who has no business having a megaphone. Today it’s a woman named Sheila who keeps yelling, “NO KINGS. NO CROWNS. NO NONSENSE.” Even though she’s wearing a Burger King paper crown she claims is “ironic.” Sure, Sheila. Sure.

Then there’s the guy who brought a drum. There is always a drum. And he always hits it off‑beat like he’s trying to summon democracy from the dead. But the signs. Oh, the signs. They’re the emotional core of the whole thing:

  • “NO KINGS. WE ALREADY HAVE ENOUGH FAMILY DRAMA.”
  • “DEMOCRACY: MESSY BUT MINE.”
  • “I’M JUST HERE BECAUSE MY THERAPIST SAID, ‘USE YOUR OUTSIDE VOICE.’”

I saw one that said, “NO KINGS. NO GODS. JUST VOTERS.” And I swear I felt my ancestors nod.

Somewhere between the chanting, sweating and the existential dread, it hits me. We’re not out here because it’s fun. We’re out here because we’re tired. Tired of being talked over. Tired of being dismissed. Tired of watching people in power act like the rest of us are NPCs in their personal video game.

We’re out here because we know what silence costs. We’re out here because someone has to be loud. We’re out here because our kids deserve better than whatever this political Jenga tower is.

At one point, a man tripped over a cooler and yelled, “This is why we can’t have a king. We can’t even have a cordless microphone.” A toddler held up a sign that said “NO” because that’s all they could write. And honestly it was the most accurate message of the day. When the wind blew everyone’s posters backward, we all looked like we were protesting ourselves. Which honestly felt spiritually correct. There is nothing quite as unintentionally hilarious as a conservative Christian explaining the world to you with the confidence of someone who has never once questioned their own Wi‑Fi password.

These are the same folks who will look you dead in the eye and say things like:

  • “We don’t believe in kings.” While simultaneously worshipping any man with a microphone and a Bible verse taped to his podium.
  • “We’re persecuted.” While standing in a Hobby Lobby the size of a small airport.
  • “We’re just defending traditional values.” Which apparently include casseroles, judgment, and pretending not to see their own family drama.

They say it all with the sincerity of a toddler handing you a drawing of a dinosaur that looks like a potato. They mean well. They just don’t land the plane.

My personal favorite is when they try to explain why they’re against something they’ve never actually experienced. “You know, I just don’t agree with that lifestyle.” Which lifestyle, Brenda? The one you saw on a Facebook meme posted by a woman named “Patriots4Jesus1776?” Or the one you’ve never actually talked to a real human about?

And then there’s the classic, “I’m not judging, I’m just saying.” If you have to announce you’re not judging, you’re already halfway to the potluck with a casserole dish full of judgment and shredded cheese.

But the funniest part that makes me laugh so hard I need to sit down is how they always think they’re delivering some profound truth. Like they’re dropping wisdom from Mount Sinai when really they’re just repeating something their cousin Earl said at Thanksgiving between bites of deviled eggs.

So, here’s the thing, y’all. We don’t need crowns. We don’t need thrones. And we sure don’t need anybody trying to cosplay as royalty in a country that can barely keep the Wi‑Fi stable during a thunderstorm. We’ve got our voices. We’ve got our people. We’ve got our stubborn, sweaty, snack‑powered determination. And if anybody’s still confused about where we stand? We stand right here loud. Unbothered. Unbowed. And reminding the nation that the only thing we kneel for is tying our shoes.

By the end of the day, my feet hurt. And my soul felt like it had been wrung out like a dish rag. But the charcoal was still warm. The people were still loud. And the message was still clear.  No kings. No crowns. No giving up.

We may be messy, sweaty, snack‑dependent chaos gremlins. But we show up. We show up for each other. We show up for the future. We show up because silence is a luxury we don’t have. And we’ll keep showing up with charcoal lit. Signs crooked. Hearts wide open until the message sticks.

We joke about protesting like it’s America’s new weekend sport. But the truth underneath isn’t funny at all. We’re living through corruption stacked sky‑high. Child‑abuse coverups that should’ve shattered entire systems. Foreign intelligence games happening in plain sight. ICE acting like a secret police force. Free speech under attack. Minority communities scapegoated on repeat. Billionaires treating democracy like a clearance sale. And someone out here fantasizing about the East Wing like it’s a tyrant starter kit.

And the loudest danger of all is White Nationalism. It’s cruelty dressed up as Christianity. Cheered on by conservative Christians who swear it’s holy because someone slapped Jesus’ name on it. We laugh to stay human. But we protest because the danger is real. Thanks for reading! There Are No Kings In America!

Affirmation: Today I stand loud, steady, and unshakeable. I honor my voice, my boundaries, and my fire. I refuse to shrink for anyone who benefits from my silence. I rise because I can, and I keep rising because I’m built for more than fear.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

A Life Too Bright for Silence: Honoring Alex Pretti

“Some people leave footprints. Alex left constellations.”

—This Puzzled Life

 Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Grab your protest sign and a cup of coffee. Because if you live in the Deep South like I do, grief doesn’t just arrive. It sweats through your clothes and fogs up your glasses before breakfast.

Before I knew his name. Before I knew the details that would punch me right in the chest, Alex Pretti reached me. All the way down here where I’m surrounded by red as far as the eye can see. And when a story travels that far and hits that hard, you know it’s not just news. It’s a wake‑up call. It’s a “Lord, give me strength” moment.

I didn’t know Alex personally. But the kind of man he was? You could feel it. He was one of those people whose light didn’t ask permission. It just showed up, loud and warm and human. The kind of man who loved deeply, laughed easily, and carried a softness this world doesn’t always know what to do with. A man who deserved to grow old, to be safe, to be held by a country he believed in.

However, an ICE agent took his life. Another name added to a list no one should ever be on. And here I am, a radical left lesbian mom in Mississippi, suddenly out in the streets protesting because a man I never met had his life taken by a system that keeps insisting it’s “protecting” us while leaving families shattered in its reality.

Alex was the kind of man who felt everything at full volume. He cared deeply. He believed people deserved second chances. Even when he rarely gave himself one. He was the friend who showed up with snacks, unsolicited advice, and a chaotic plan that somehow always worked out. He was the man who apologized to furniture when he bumped into it. The man who hugged like he meant it. Said everything with his full chest. And had a softness, that humanity, is exactly what makes his loss so difficult. When I learned that Alex had been shot by an ICE agent, something inside me cracked. Not because it was surprising. Even though it was. But because it was familiar. Too familiar.

Another life taken. Another family grieving. Another official statement full of phrases like “self-defense” and “ongoing investigation.” Another community left holding the weight of a story that should never have happened.

Alex wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a danger. He wasn’t a headline. He was a man. A son. A friend. A human being who deserved dignity, safety, and a future. And here’s the part that keeps making tears well up in my eyes. We never met. Our lives never crossed. But somehow his light still reached me. Where people like me are used to feeling outnumbered, unheard, and underestimated. Your story landed right in the middle of my heart like a truth I didn’t know I needed. Your life touched a stranger hundreds of miles away. Your death shook a community you never met. Your name pulled me into the streets to protest because what happened to you was wrong, and silence would’ve been its own kind of violence.

We had the only thing we ever needed in common. We were both Americans who still loved this country. All the colors of the rainbow. Who believed in equality for all. And who loves and respects our constitution. Not blindly, but bravely. Not the sanitized version. Not the version politicians slip out when they want applause.

We loved the real country. The one made of people, not power. The one made of communities, not cruelty. The one that’s worth fighting for because it’s ours, even when it breaks our hearts. You loved this place enough to believe in its promise. And I love it enough to protest the systems that stole you from it.

When I speak Alex’s name, I think of the way he lived. I think of his light and his laugh. The kind that made strangers smile. I think of his hope for our neighbors and country. The kind that refused to dim. I think of his softness. The kind that made people feel safe.

Alex taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. He taught me that vulnerability is an act of courage. He taught me that showing up messy, flawed,  and human is enough. You and me strangers on paper. Yet connected in purpose. Your life touched mine, and now your name lives in my throat every time I show up with a sign, a voice, and a righteous amount of Southern gay attitude.

I wish your story ended differently. I wish this country loved you back the way you loved it. Your light didn’t go out. It spread. It reached a queer mom in Mississippi who refuses to be quiet. It reached a community that refuses to forget. It reached people who are tired of watching the same system break the same bodies and call it “order.”

And if ICE, the state, or anyone else wants to know why I’m out here protesting, yelling, writing, and refusing to sit down, the answer is simple. Because Alex Pretti and Renee Good deserved to grow old.Because loving this country means fighting the parts of it that keep killing people. Because silence is not patriotism. Accountability is. And because The United States of America’s Constitution specifically states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that ALL men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” BECAUSE IN THIS COUNTRY, THERE ARE NO KINGS!

And yes, I’ll still make jokes, because grief and humor are cousins in my family. But don’t get it twisted. The fire is real.

Your story changed me. Your name will not fade. And if this country ever gets better, it’ll be because of people like you. And the people who refuse to stop saying your name. Thanks for reading! And never stay quiet.

Affirmation: I honor the fallen by fighting like hell for the living. And by keeping my sense of humor, because the revolution needs snacks and sarcasm.

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

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

Happy Birthday, Marshall!

“Sons are the anchors of a mother’s life.”

-Sophocles

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today is a very special day. It’s my oldest son, Marshall, birthday. Fourteen years ago today, after thirty-six hours of labor, Marshall made his entrance into the world. I will say with confidence that I was NOT the one who gave birth. And from that moment, my life was, once again, forever changed.

Our dreams as parents became a reality when our little preemie boy entered the world. And, boy, did he make the sun shine brighter that day. Within moments, we went from sleeping late anytime we wanted to, to now being very protective of this little boy who would call us moms. And now there was a little being that we would literally sacrifice everything for.

Our beautiful little boy name, Marshall Lake Landrum-Arnold, would struggle at the beginning of his life just trying to maintain his own body temperature and learning how to eat and put healthy weight on his tiny, little body. That first year was not easy by any means. And I speak for myself when I say that I was so happy that he arrived. But I was terrified of now being responsible for raising him to adulthood. And I was scared that I would not be enough.

His health scares and concerns were extremely stressful for us as a new family. And for once, I knew what it felt like to be completely helpless and not be able to “quick fix” a situation. But I finally understood the mysterious love between a parent and a child. This little boy, I knew, would change the world even if it was for two lesbian moms.

It has been the most frustrating, difficult, and rewarding job that I never thought possible. Now, fourteen years later, our little preemie is in the throws of puberty. He has a deep voice, peach fuzz, and an almost never-ending attitude. And first thing every morning he hisses and has the most ruthless cause of “bedhead” that I’ve ever seen. But he’s still my little boy.

He was beautiful the moment he entered the world. And he’s still beautiful now. He is the smartest and most caring boy that still loves to hang out with momma and laugh. Now it’s not wanting a bottle and a nap. It’s video games, nerf guns, weird music, a voracious appetite, band practice, books, and a mood swing that is constantly going back and forth. But he’s still my little boy.

We don’t live together now, but he always lives within me. From the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep, my thoughts always hold in the recesses of my mind, the many fears of  being a parent. You can have many children, but there is only one first born. And as a first born myself, I try to impress upon him the importance about his role as a big brother. He has dreams and aspirations that I watch change sometimes daily.

Happy Birthday to you my beautiful boy! I look forward to many more years of watching you develop and become a man. While also knowing that three moms can raise a son without a man successfully. I love you more than life. And I thank you for making me a mom and changing my life. I will continue to love you unconditionally no matter what path in life you take. Because the sky is the limit for you. Hug your children because they won’t be babies for very long. Thanks for reading!

 Affirmation: My voice matters.

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

#Thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

No Kings 2.0

“There are no kings in America. Only gilded me we can topple again and again.”

-Aileen Cassinetto

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today, I want to talk to you about our country for a moment. I don’t usually write much about politics on my blog. Social media is quite different. However, we are currently experiencing unprecedented times. Which is causing so much collateral damage that it could take several presidents to undo what is being done if that is even possible.

When my boys come to visit we always talk about current things like school, everyday life, personal wants, “would you rather” and the current political environment. And to be honest, I never thought I would have to explain basic human rights and how those are egregiously being destroyed. And now the decisions of a lot of Americans have put in power a want to be dictator.

I wrote a blog this past month that recently posted about how good we have it in our country. And now I must retract that statement by tell you that the United States of America, the threat to democracy and the very essence of our lives are now being tailored for a fascist society. And the “American Spirit,” which is not a person, is being made a mockery of the founding fathers’ original intentions. Let me break it down.

Our Foundational Ideas

·        Liberty and Independence: The freedom to think, speak, and act as one chooses without infringing on the rights of others.

·        Self-government: The belief that citizens are the ultimate source of authority and have the right to participate in the political process.

·        Equality: The idea that all people are created equal and deserve fair treatment, respect, and dignity, with equal opportunities for success.

·        Individualism: The belief that individuals are in control of their own destinies and can achieve self-sufficiency and independence through their own initiative (https:study.com, 2025).

Aspirations of the American Dream

·        The promise of opportunity: Anyone can achieve success through sacrifice, risk-taking, and hard work.

·        Upward social mobility: The change for individuals to attain a better life than their parents.

·        A “democracy of goods”: The notion that everyone should have access to material comfort and goods, a vision popularized in the 20th century (https://www.wikipedia.org, 2025).

I now must again explain to my children how racism, at its core, is just wrong in every way. And how the example of the highest position, in our once revered democracy is being dismantled one freedom and one right at a time. And how if someone disagrees with someone’s way of life, you must not fear and/or hate them. I have instructed my children from day one that people and families are unique individually. And just because of their uniqueness, it doesn’t mean that they are wrong. I don’t care about your skin color, religious affiliation, political affiliation, sexual orientation, ethnic background, or gender identity. However, what I don’t like are bullies. And currently we have a bully in power.

I don’t hate no matter how far left or far right you are on the spectrum. But the idea of hating and inciting violence against someone because they are different is not ok. Do I like people like Charlie Kirk? Hell no. Do I think that he deserved to be murdered based on his views, regardless of whether I agreed with him or the fact that he was a racist and a homophobe, never. But when your whole premise of the stage that you voluntarily inject yourself onto is about treating those you disagree with by tearing them down, bad things are bound to happen. And when political views and votes are more important than lives of our citizens and our beautiful immigrants, our tears begin to fall.

When the president of the United States who has 34 felony convictions, and whose best friends were  the vilest child sex trafficker and rapists this country has ever seen, while also having the support of others, it must be discussed and stopped. Jeffery Epstein and Ghislane Maxwell were convicted of some of the most horrible crimes against children. And it has been confirmed that Donald Trump’s name, as well as many others, were also listed in the Epstein files.

As a parent and someone who was also preyed upon by those in power, the only logical decision of our government should be to release the unredacted files and have total transparency. This  shouldn’t be a tall order. I see a lot of people online who voted for Donald talking about how evil Jefferey Epstein was. And how pedophiles should be held accountable, unless you talk about the high probability that Donald Trump is also connected to said crimes.

I have never seen so many lies and an obvious cover up by the United States government in my life. I don’t care whose names, whether they be democrats, republicans, independents or royalty, are on the list. They should all be held accountable. And for some of us, whose perpetrators were never held accountable, this is a national symbol of that fight for justice. And just maybe the bad guys get caught in the end and have to pay for their actions that have ruined upwards of a thousand children’s lives.

When you are forced into something as horrific as sexual abuse, your life is forever changed. You will never view the world as “safe” again. You will never look at the average person the same again. And the most intimate part of a person’s life and body are forever damaged. The lies and manipulation that one has to possess to accomplish these acts are more than I can comprehend.

It is my hope and prayer that whoever has taken part in actions consistent with pedophilia, rape and/or the coverup of these crimes will see the day when they are forced to be accountable for everything that they have turned a “blind  eye” to. I shouldn’t have to explain why blatant actions have been and continue to be ignored. I shouldn’t have to explain how and why our, once thriving and beautifully diverse country has systematically been sent down the tubes. And is also being controlled by a Russian dictator who is training our orange, “want to be dictator” in the ways of murdering democracy.

My children shouldn’t have to witness and be explained the purpose of “Alligator Alcatraz.” And how funny it is to the hard core “Triple Trumpers” MAGA movement. The only thing consistent are lies, deceit and the many times of the crashing of Grindr by down low politicians. Who are angry because they are scared of authenticity. I shouldn’t have to explain why our country is ok with standing by someone like Benjamin Netanyahu and watching as the genocide in Gaza continues. I shouldn’t have to explain why Vladamir Putin is allowed to continue with the horrific attacks on the people of Ukraine. I shouldn’t have to explain why a dictator across the pond poisons those that don’t agree with them. But here we are.

What I do have to explain are the constant sacrifices of our military service members, who many have laid down their lives for generations, in an effort to make sure that we retain those inalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And how and why the Declaration of Independence and our Constitution was formed. Even though the president of our country clearly knows nothing about said rights which was caught on camera many times. Why “No Kings Day” protests are so important. And how our once love for the “freedom of speech” is being allowed to now be censored.

With tears in my eyes, again, I write this. And the grief of my soul as I watch the sometimes-comical players in this mockery of a democratic government, keeps me up at night. And a lot of times, I laugh to keep from crying. But the videos of children and adults being starved to death is not something that we are accustomed to witnessing. I don’t believe that those who take away the rights of others should have rights of their own.

The tensions in this country of the blatant abuse of power by turning the military on our citizens is uncalled for and scary. And the depths of these fears, I do my best to shield my children from seeing. But they are not dumb. They ask questions and I try to explain them on an age-appropriate level.

I enjoy watching and posting the satire of some of these views. But make no mistake, I will constantly keep at the forefront of our conversations about the importance of such figures in the civil rights movement,  Nazi Germany, the extermination of the Jews in concentration camps and the importance of the Stonewall riots. And now, I must explain to them modern day concentration camps disguised as being something “good” for the American public.

People, life as we knew it is disappearing at a rapid rate. It is time for us as Americans to grow a spine and make a peaceful stand against tyranny. And this means doing “your part” in whatever way that looks. No longer is it ok to remain “neutral” as “neutrality” is now a vote for tyranny. You can make a choice to be red, blue or any color of the rainbow. And remember that staying neutral is also a choice. Our country is a collection of diverse groups of people, races, ethnicities, and religions creating One America. The colors that matter the most are the ones who are red, white, and blue.

Thanks for reading! And I hope that you, not only as an American, will stand up for what’s right instead of staying silent to what’s wrong. To our allies across the pond and abroad, your voices also matter. And I personally thank each and every one of you for not allowing the Epstein scandal to  go unnoticed. Keep standing for freedom my fellow Americans as will I. And to our diligent immigrants, I will continue to do my part to fight for your right to live the American Dream that most of us took for granted. Thanks for your attention to this matter.

Affirmation: I embrace the opportunities and freedoms in the United States to build the life I deserve.

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

#Thispuzzledlife