Catalog

THE LECTURE HALL

I tell you things I think I know. You make connections nobody asked for and they're all correct because you're not just a sad boi, you're a very clever boi, too!

System of a You

[The Kale Protocol]
They look at you with disgust because you're bitter like kale leaves. Let Headmistress massage your personality until it's palatable to the basic bitches at Panera. And like any good massage, if it doesn't hurt, you're just getting the rub, so don't flinch when the tugging starts. We work through every system that tried to name you: the MBTI, the Enneagram, the HR record; and locate exactly where they made your personality pathological.
From Venus of Willendorf to Kandi of Williamsburg
The Headmistress offers an explanatory bracelet of bullshit beads, high-strung on tenuous thread. Tie a slipknot at the end and show the world who you are...go ahead and out yourself as a {recovering} sad boi. {also: we make kandi in google sheets. It’s a whole thing.}
I Feel a Lil Punk But I Still Need to Go to Work
Target believes in the freedom of ICE to kidnap humans and the decency of the American public to not kidnap the TP and cleaning supplies from their restrooms. I believe in wearing oversized clothes and always having a square to spare. ’Micro-resistance' {not just shoplifting} as moral hygiene. Also: Why you should help headmistress pile obstructive bird scooters on billboard decks.
Reverse Cowgnosis
You gallop around the room unbridled, neighing me everything you know about that thing nobody cares about. I will show you I care by telling you how this all connects to my things nobody cares about while palming sugar cubes into your champing, frantic, nectared muzzle. Did we just Big O our repository of "conversation killers"? {sad[computer]boi, don't come at me with "this is horizontal scaling". Think of it like Nathan Fielder hiring 23 maids to clean one house: trying to optimize for time but just scales the logistical nightmare to O(n^2). Talk to me and I can be Nathan for you.}
THE PLAYGROUND

Your khakis try to contain it but Headmistress feels your brooding brutishness yearning to bust through: Come out and play. When we're on the swings, remember that faceplanting from such great heights is a proven method for breaking the ennui, so don't be afraid to jump.

Just Tell Me What To Do
Personality by proxy. Experiencing persona paralysis? You let everyone else tell you who to be, why not obey your Headmistress? I give you a character to play. You execute their decisions. We test-drive a manufactured personality to see if it gets better mileage than that trauma response you've been sporting.
What's Up Doc
Not Headmistress seeing if she can get an awakened boi or seven to regress into the Ludic-logic of a primal Saturday morning by watching Looney Tunes and eating carrots like they're cigars with her. {A Freudian joke from a Jungian catastrophe. I know you want to put your carrot in my case. ↓}
The 2 AM Parking Lot
We talk until the sun comes up or your spouse reboots your reality. High-energy, investigative, and entirely justified, at least until your sun sets, the blood leaves your head, and you have to look at yourself in the rearview mirror.
The Kickstand is Obsolete
You keep biking by Headmistress, sitting at the end of her driveway, surrounded by chaotic piles of pogs. She fingers her slammer in wait. Bois are supposed to ask to play, not the other way around. As the minutes go by, she wonders: maybe sad bois are actually scared bois? Sad, scared boi — it's okay to throw your bike down without the security of the kickstand. Don't you want to play pogs with me before you get back to that game of Monopoly you started? {this headmistress doesn't have to play for keeps}
THE LAB

The place to be when you're ready to take a Bunsen burner to the mask. Blow away the ashes and present what remains for safe-keeping in Headmistress' reliquary. Holding your baggage for a bit is what keeps her sturdy.

Work Sucks, I Know

[The Rubato Dom]
TL;DR Yeah, that {work-related issue} does suck. Now let's find the pattern in the suck. You can spend another hour dissociating with just enough awareness to keep your corporate surveillance communication app green, or you can just tell me what is presenting as the issue and we’ll start gnawing that knot loose in the moment. They'll call it "time-theft" but you’re just roleplaying as the rubato dom, bending their timeline to your tempo. And why shouldn’t you wear a different mask some days?
DancePunk OptOut

Your life isn't a closed studio session, sad boi. It's a live dance-punk party that you're DJing and why the fuck are you only playing tracks from Fevers and Mirrors? Let's detune and position this sad-boi persona until you embrace your inner Uncle Joey, cut {that sh}it out, and let the crowd feel your frequency.

FIELD TRIPS

Long days, short buses. At least that's how it feels when you're still practicing the art of being an adult from Middle C.

THE ERRANT GIRL PROTOCOL

or: i'm sorry we traded community for convenience
I accompany you on mundane tasks because I actually like going with you to return those library books or buy a stamp or do other things in 1995. Seriously, road trip to the power company and we'll pay the bill on your phone in their parking lot. You can have chores or you can have chores + companionship. Your choice, sad boi.
WE CAN'T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE

[when their field interrupts your trip]

They took a pic of headmistress as a wee lass, just before the "tantrum" swirled her into that place she goes in her mind that makes it seem like she's observing life through those giant plastic strips that guard the walk-in freezer. They should have taken an fMRI; we could marvel at the excellent jellyfish brain (so apropos for a sea world excursion!).

Watch as she realizes that they've reached the last rest area and still no sign of the ocean. She can't stop seeing all the wrong things. Whales don't belong in Ohio…what will they eat? Who will they play with? And if she says anything, she's being too sensitive again. And surely this cost a lot so she should appreciate it. And Grandma and PapPap really wanted to do this for you and mom and Shamu/Kayla(?) need to be witnessed and they're all going to be dead one day so you should appreciate this.

So, you kill a little bit of yourself for them and fake the motions from behind your plastic flaps, unable to make eye contact with the whale or the penguin mascot or yourself…a trio of ashamed sea world captives.

Oh, hey look, another one of those unhealed wounds. Pull it together, Headmistress.

Ahem. **with authority & lust**: 'Hey sad boi, they just don't get you like I do.' We return to the scene of the psychological crime. What was really going on in your beautiful jellyfish brain when they started ripping off pieces of your tentacles to stop you from reaching for connection?