What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
Here are ChatGPT’s top 10 things it thinks we need to live a good life.
🌻 1. Love (with a capital L) Not just the romantic kind, but love in its many flavors—loyal dogs that follow you room to room, my partner of 31 years is still making me laugh, friends who know your weirdness and stick around anyway. Love gives life its warmth, its reason.
🛠 2. Purpose Whether it’s writing songs, raising kids, or rummaging through garage sales like it’s a treasure hunt ordained by fate—purpose gives me a reason to get up, even on gray mornings. It doesn’t have to be grand. Just real.
💰 3. Enough (but not too much) I don’t need to be rolling in riches. Just enough to be safe, fed, and occasionally treat yourself to something joyful—like a vintage lamp shaped like a goose wearing a bonnet. (You know that’s a good find.)
🧠 4. Peace of Mind That quiet space in your soul where you’re not at war with yourself. Forgiveness, self-compassion, learning to say “no” without guilt—these are the unsung heroes of happiness.
🫂 5. Connection To people, yes—but also to moments. To the way sunlight spills across my porch. To stories that matter. To old songs and new dreams. Without connection, life is a long hallway echoing back nothing.
🎨 6. Creativity & Expression Whether I’m writing lyrics, painting, building, cooking, or dancing in the living room with the dogs—creativity is how we process the chaos and sprinkle beauty over it like glitter on a kindergarten art project.
🌳 7. Health This one’s sneaky. We forget it until it slips. Physical health, yes, but also mental health—the kind that lets you breathe easy and sleep through the night without carrying tomorrow’s worries like a backpack of bricks.
🙏 8. Gratitude Not forced “silver lining” stuff—but a gentle noticing. “Look at this,” you whisper to yourself. “We’ve made it another day.” Gratitude softens the hard edges and makes even the simplest meals feel like a feast.
🎭 9. A Little Mystery Some dreams left undone, some roads not taken, a sense that life still has surprises for you. Keeps the spark burning.
🎶 10. Stories Yours, mine, the stranger’s on the bench. We’re made of stories, and living a good life means telling yours with honesty, heart, and maybe a few unexpected plot twists.
Now, if I could bottle that up, I’d put it on a shelf labeled “Essentials for a Life Well-Lived” right next to the glitter-globe collection and the sacred cookie jar that never stays full for long. What would you add to the list?
When I was in elementary school, there was a contest in the class for our grade to write a short story and make it into a book. I think I was in 3rd or 4th grade. I can’t exactly remember but I do remember that I didn’t not win anything. The teacher told us to go to the library and to find a book to base our story on and to make our own story. I don’t know what book I chose but it must not have been a very good book. The story I wrote was about a boy who didn’t have any friends and couldn’t find anyone to play with him. I wish I had that book I wrote now. I can remember one of the drawing and all it was – was a stick figure and a hill of dirt. I didn’t have much of an imagination back then. And I don’t know why I would chose a male over a female. I can’t remember the whole story but it was just basically about a boy who had no friends. Now the girl who did win in our class and in our grade had a story about a dragon. A fantasy story about a dragon is all I can remember. I felt so bad about not making a better story. Back then, I didn’t know that I could write.
Reading
Through out middle school I would read the books by Francine Pascal called Sweet Valley Twins or Sweet Valley High. The main characters were Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield. There were some other ones geared for pre-teen girls but it was mostly those type of books. It wasn’t until around my 8th grade year I got into Stephen King. I had to have all the books. Looking back – I wish I hadn’t. Those ghost stories did a lot of damage to not only my soul but my real life. Those books can put things into your imagination that shouldn’t be there. And since I believe in Karma, I think those spooky stories can bring things into your life that you don’t need. You have to know that I didn’t grow up in a religious household. We didn’t go to church every Sunday. We didn’t do a lot of things and now that I am older, I am wishing I had.
Poetry
So how does all my life experience lead to poetry? Well, I’m not really sure. I have so much to share, so much to tell, and I really think it started last year – before Suno. When we would lay down to go to bed, I would hear music. I would ask my husband if he heard music and he always said no. It was practically every night. I didn’t hear voices singing, at least not loud but when I discovered Suno, the music stopped and I started hearing verses. I would wake up in the middle of the night and ask my husband if he said something and the answer was always a resounding no. So now I will pick up my phone and put it into the notes app on my phone or into ChatGPT to remember for me. Those lyrics would be different every night. I will sometimes hear a song on the radio and think I can hear a different song with that same style of music. I found I could do parody’s as as long as I mention that in the description, it is legal. I still have some verses or just one line sentences that need songs to go with them but nothing has hit me yet on what to do with them. Well, thanks for reading and I hope that if there is anyone else out there who can relate, you would let me know. Surely to goodness I can’t be the only one. Or am I?
This song is based on a song my mother wrote a long time ago. I modified the lyrics and I have the voice of Mr. Crazy Rummagesale Man singing the song. I hope you like it. The original lyrics are below.
Darlin’, Come to me Tonight
~ written by Dorothy Johnson
Darlin' come to me tonight, it'll be alright. I want you and love you so much, Come here and I'll teach you the facts of life, And I want you to hold me this way.
Darlin, when I kiss you, it feels so right. Your embrace is all that i Need And when you surrender your love to me All i want is your truth and honesty.
Darlin' come to me tonight, it'll be alright, I want you and love you so much. Come here and I'll teach you the facts of life, And I want you to hold me this way.
Darlin, when we go out, on the town, Everyone knows you are with me. Because when you hold on, to my arm, you look at me lovingly.
Darlin come to me tonight, it'll be alright. I want you and love you so much. Come here and I'll teach you the facts of life, And I want you to hold me this way.
These are stories from the back roads—dusted with time, packed with truth. I write songs, poems, and pieces of life that might’ve been tossed aside, but never forgotten. I’m the Yard Sale Queen, and every word I share is something I found worth saving.
My husband and I have adopted colorful persona’s: Yard Sale Queen and Mr. Crazy Rummage Sale Man. I see the beauty in things that others miss. I find meaning in the ordinary, joy in the trash, and worth in the forgotten. That similar spirit is reflected in “Stories Worth the Dust.”
Dust is time, not just dirt. It’s memories. It’s what decides on something timeless but treasured. My poetry, songs, and stories are all based on real life—the kind that doesn’t always sparkle but is always significant. “Even the dusty things deserve to be heard.” That has a lot of power.
It combines playfulness and seriousness.
Without coming across as a gimmick, this tagline pays homage to my rustic style. It has a great deal of heart and a hint of mystery (“what does that mean?“). In addition to being emotional, a little scrappy, and honoring my Southern heritage, it also sounds intelligent and purposeful. I take my stories seriously, but I don’t take myself too seriously. It balances whimsy with weight in a delicate way. That’s precisely the tone I want to achieve.
It Honors Everyday Life
Everyday things like yard sales, family stories, highway encounters, and music that sounds like my hometown can all be poetic. “Stories Worth the Dust” suggests that I’ve seen, heard, and lived, and now I’m sharing the truth. Big-city polish is not what I’m after. I’m not attempting to be pretentious. I’m attempting to be honest. Stories that grab the reader’s attention are what I write. That originates from actual people, genuine porches, and real kitchens. There is dust in that world. And those old stories have fresh life because I’ve decided to bring them to the public’s attention.
It Builds a Brand That’s Cohesive
Mr. Crazy Rummagesale Man, my husband’s name, conjures up images of laughter, vigor, and possibly even mayhem. My Yard Sale Queen gives the rust a touch of majesty. I’ve already created a universe centered on storytelling, charm, and thrift. That’s the world that this tagline belongs in. It gives the impression that my writing is a gem hidden in the bins, just waiting to be discovered, much like the rummaging. It establishes an identity if I use this slogan on my website, book cover, blog header, and social media biographies. One that is kind, sage, humorous, and proud of its origins.
My Final Thought
I don’t need a big city or a big platform to write meaningful stories. To express what needs to be spoken, I need a heart, a voice, and the courage. I possess all three. I can fly the flag “Stories Worth the Dust,” which states that These words may be from the back roads, but they’re worth reading.
Who’s Driving My Life? A Dream of Loss, Love, and Learning to Let Go
My fears come from my dreams. My dreams show me my fears. I have often had reoccurring nightmares. It may seem ridiculous but I really have to let these dreams get out of my subconscious in order to move on in life. I hope you will watch this first video to hear the whole dream and watch the second video to hear Chat GPT’s complete interpretation. The song is totally based on this dream. My mother sitting besides me in the car is something we used to do together. She passed away in 2014 but I will never forget her.
If you like this type of content, wouldn’t you please give me a comment below or a comment on my YouTube channel? Like and subscribe for more. Thanks.
Chase the Dream ~ Lyrics by Lisa Sanders
In the early morning light, I chase the dawn... Time slips through my hands - it's already gone.
I thought I had peace, everything in its place, But trouble walks in with a stranger’s face. My head said no, but I let her inside, Some things you don’t plan, they just arrive.
In the early morning light, I chase the dawn, Time slips through my hands – it’s already gone. It feels like someone else has been steering my life, Spirit in the seat, no map in sight.
I pushed back hard, didn’t want what she left, Like a child kicking fate, feeling half-bereft. I asked her name, but she vanished like smoke, Left me with questions and no words she spoke
But, of course, I should have known — This hand-me-down life, not fully my own. You don’t get to choose what fate drops at your door, You just hold it close or let it fall to the floor.
Now the floorboards hum with memories deep, Crumbs of the past, I can't help but keep. Ready to start, but silence replies — Still haunted by roads I never did drive.
In the early morning light, I chase the dawn, Time slips through my hands – it’s already gone. It feels like someone else has been steering my life, Spirit in the seat, no map in sight.
In the early morning light, I chase the dawn, Time slips through my hands — it's already gone. Feels like someone else, steering my way, A spirit guide beside me, still shaping my life.
by Lisa, Queen of the Clearance Aisle and Commander of Catchy Tunes
Every song I write is like a yard sale treasure-maybe a little quirky, maybe a little dusty with truth-but once you hold it up to the light, you realize it’s got soul, sass, and a story worth singing.” ~ The Yard Sale Queen
Legacy. Big Word, eh? evokes images of enigmatic treasure maps concealed behind antique portraits, marble monuments, or gold records. Let’s face it, though: my legacy? Probably more like:
A playlist full of real-talk
A garage full of yard sale glory
And maybe a few lipstick stains on coffee mugs
An idea, a phrase, or a sensation that is too obstinate to let go begins as a whisper. After that, it develops into something more: a message, a melody, or a mirror.
Lately, I’ve released four songs that feel like little pieces of my soul stitched together:
Don’t You Know My Name?
Retail Therapy
A Man with a Plan
My Man with a Plan
Each one is different, yet they all carry a part of the legacy I hope to leave behind
Don’t You Know My Name?
– A Song for the Invisible
This one was profoundly rooted. For anybody who has ever felt invisible, unacknowledged, or rejected, it’s a shout into the winds of rejection. For the underdogs, the forgotten, the “background characters” of life who deserved their own spotlight, I wanted to create something unique.
If my legacy includes reminding someone that their voice matters—even when the world’s not listening—then I’ve done something right.
Retail Therapy – A Song for the Women Who Keep On Smiling
This one is cheeky, fun, and exudes “I-deserve-this” attitude. It’s more than just shopping; it’s about rediscovering small joys in the midst of chaos. This one is for the women who are running on empty but keep continuing to chuckle at the clearance rack.
I want my legacy to include laughter. To remind people that fun counts. Joy counts. And yes—sometimes that clearance-rack treasure is your emotional breakthrough.
A Man with a Plan
– A Song for the Dreamers (and the Doers)
This one was inspired by any passionate soul that refuses to give up. The blueprint might be a little crooked. The tools may be corroded. He has ideas and drive and strives to figure things out as he goes. Aren’t we all?
I hope my songs say, Don’t wait for perfect. Start now. You’re allowed to dream while building the staircase beneath your feet.
My Man with a Plan
– A Love Song (with a wink)
This follow-up tune is a personal tribute to the man who has been by my side for more than 30 years. Mr. Crazy Rummage Sale Man himself. This song combines affection, grin, and heart. It is about loving someone not because they are perfect, but because you have created a perfectly imperfect life together.
If I leave behind anything, I hope it’s the reminder that lasting love is worth singing about. Even when it includes dogs, old trucks, and mismatched yard sale treasures.
My Legacy? Songs with Soul.
I don’t need statues or bestselling albums (though hey, I won’t turn down a Grammy if it shows up 😉). What I want—really want—is for someone to stumble on one of my songs years from now, and feel seen. Or to laugh. Or cry. Or sing along like they’re not alone.
My legacy is a songbook filled with truth. With stories. With sass. With sorrow. With hope.
And maybe—just maybe—a little therapy in the form of lyrics. ~The Yard Sale Queen
Here is the real story. Names were altered except for Tammy’s.
If you would like to listen to this story, click on this video down below.
At the nearby nursing home, we were both enrolled in a CNA course. Their free training program to become a certified nursing assistant would last eight weeks. That’s where I met Tammy.
I envied her. She was tall, blond and gorgeous. She gave off the impression of being well-organized.
Around 10:30 one morning, Mrs. Rogers gave us our customary break. Tammy stayed with me as the other girls walked outside to smoke. She wore one-inch heels (not that she required them), matching trousers, and a soft pink shirt. She pulled her golden hair high into a tidy bun. She never overdid it and always looked put together. She carried herself confidently, or so I thought.
“Would it be possible for us to speak alone?’ She trembled when she spoke. Fighting tears.
“My father hates me, and I think I was adopted.” She cried. “I don’t look nothing like my parents.”
I was at a loss for words. All that came out was “Oh my.”
“For this job, I asked my mom for my birth certificate, but she refused to give it to me.” She lowered her head and really broke down.
She described to me how she was treated like an outcast by her family. Her father paid her no attention. Two of her children lived with their fathers. The other two with her parents. Her calls went unanswered, even by her closest sibling. It seemed as though she had no one.
All that external beauty vanished as she spoke. I saw her soul – wounded and shattered. At the age of 23, I was clueless about how to console her. So I just sat listening.
After three weeks or so, Tammy invited Miranda, another girl, to hang out after class on a Friday. Miranda drove us home in her pickup truck. Tammy and Miranda’s sister, Sherry, rode in the back, while I sat with her in the front. The home roads meandered through steep slopes and curves. Miranda drove at a casual 80 miles per hour, as if she were racing. I held on to the door rigidly.
Tammy, meanwhile, was standing on the truck’s bed, joking, shouting, and laughing while waving to strangers in their yards. She did not fear anything.
We eventually got to her place. We chatted and laughed late into the night. Tammy had abandoned the program that following Monday. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I continued with the program.
A few weeks later, I happened to see her while at a neighbor’s house. She was on her way across the freeway to the mailbox. On the dusty road where we both resided, I waited for her.
“How are you?” I inquired.
“I’m doing well. How about you?”
I said, “Good, good,” and then I stopped. “Hey, I wanted to tell you about that day those girls from the nursing home gave us a ride home.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know Miranda was driving eighty miles an hour?”
“Really?” Her gaze expanded. “I could have been killed.”
I gave a nod. “But neither of them finished, so I don’t expect them to come back.”
Tammy grinned. “Well, I have some positive news. I called one of those psychic hotlines. She told me that I would meet a tall, dark stranger before Christmas. Given my boyfriend’s black hair and other features, I believe it to be Tom. Perhaps we will soon tie the knot.”
“That’s fantastic,” I smiled. “I’m glad for you.”
After a quick hug, she walked back down the gravel road to her house.
Christmas hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a December day that was abnormally warm. I was preparing to go to work, dressed in my whites. While my brother and his friend Robert changed the oil in his car, I sat on the couch, smoked, and looked out the front window.
“Hi!” my brother exclaimed.
I watched Tammy’s red Cavalier zoom by in slow motion. As usual, she waved her arm out the window.
After extinguishing my cigarette, I turned, and suddenly there was a crash.
“Holy crap!” Robert shouted. “She was struck! She was struck!
“She got hit! She got hit!” My brother yelled.
I ran outside and sped towards the highway, trying not to lose my breath. Already, cars were backing up. In an attempt to free her, my brother and Robert had opened the passenger side of her vehicle.
The small automobile was forced into the ditch after an RV crashed into the driver’s side. The grass was littered with white envelopes and mailboxes.
“I didn’t see her,” the RV’s driver repeated and paced.
I saw her body lying on the ground. In an attempt to console her, Tom’s father knelt next to her. Her golden hair matted crimson. Her little body was broken and trembling. Her eyes never opened.
I went cold. That could have been me. She was just 29.
Wake up. Wake up.
Paramedics arrived. A chopper touched down. They flew her away. I never saw her again.
I stood there contemplating. Drained. She met her tall, dark stranger, I believe.
This is a real tale. Every name was altered, with the exception of Tammy’s. She had an incredible amount of potential and was authentic. She had an ambition of working in a trauma unit at a hospital.
Now, the dream seems tragically fitting.
I’ve carried this with me for years. I regret not having done more. When she most needed hope, I wish I had prayed with her, shared my faith, and introduced her to Jesus. Being young and recently baptized, I was unsure of how to proceed.
However, I have prayed to God for forgiveness. Don’t wait if you ever find yourself with someone who is lost. Speak up. Say a prayer. Share the truth.
How a Furby and a Lava Lamp Got Me Mesmerized and Hypnotized: The Story Behind My Song. Watch and listen to the video below.
Listen to this blog here.
When I entered that auction house, my only goal was to find a butter dish. But love? It was destined to hit me harder than a yard sale clearance bin, honey.
With a generous helping of snark, this song, “Mesmerized,” is a little slice of my life. It revolves around the instant I laid eyes on the Ringman. A neon lava lamp in one hand, an irresistible smile, a farmer’s hat, and an eerie Furby in the other. And then, suddenly, my heart was beating 90 miles a minute.
Verse 1: That Furby, the one who “wakes up cussin’ at half past three,” it’s true. That toy is still in a package that says, “DO NOT OPEN AFTER DARK.” And for that handsome cowboy, he was charismatic. He had swagger. It’s that wink-and-grin chemistry that makes your knees go mushy.
Verse 2: I swear that lava lamp had a magic to it. My heart was racing at a million miles a minute, and I could have fallen apart at any minute. I was mesmerized by the sight of the handsome cowboy. When he said the lava lamp was “guaranteed to light up your life,” I realized it would be more than my heart that got ignited. Baby, sparks flew everywhere!
And the chorus? This is where the Crazy Ringman Dance comes in. He had motions that had me “mes-mer-ized,” and grooves that left me “hip-no-tized” (yes, that spelling is intentional because AI cannot pronounce “hypnotized” to save its digital life).
This song is funky, confident, and full of country-fair flirtation. It’s for every woman who’s ever gone out looking for something ordinary and stumbled into something unforgettable.
Whether you’ve met your match at an auction, a yard sale, or a Walmart parking lot—this one’s for you. 💕
Married in Arkansas 