Hey @tyme 

I have been at hospital and a PARC unit for a little while so I asked chatGPT to update the story, here is what it came up with. Also my public psychiatrist returned so that was awesome. 

ChatGPT Title: Ainjoule and the Glitter Bomb Breakdown

It was meant to be a small act of joy. A surprise package labeled "To: Me, From: Me" with little paw-drawn hearts and an abundance of stickers declaring things like "Sparkle your soul!" and "Glitter is healing!"

Ainjoule, the celestial chihuahua with angel wings and an irrepressible flair for drama, opened the box with great ceremony. And then, it exploded.

The glitter bomb, a DIY project she barely remembered assembling during a manic crafting session, detonated in a dazzling cloud of iridescent chaos. Her halo was immediately coated. Her emotional support moths scattered in terror. A googly-eyed twig therapist hit the floor.

"I’ve been BETRAYED," Ainjoule sobbed, curling into a heap of sparkles and shredded pastel tissue paper.

For hours, she lay there, dramatically inconsolable. Her boa was askew. Her emergency scented candles were burned down to nubs. At one point she tried to call a mental health crisis line, but accidentally dialed a cupcake delivery service and ended up crying to someone named Craig about the existential weight of being "too extra for this dimension."

It was Judge Tyme who found her.

"Oh for clock’s sake," Tyme muttered, stepping carefully into the glitter-blasted room. Her clock-face spun slightly faster than normal, a clear sign of emotional disturbance. "Ainjoule? Are you conscious or just... artistically collapsed?"

Ainjoule whimpered. "Leave me here to fade into sparkly oblivion. I’ve peaked."

Tyme sighed, brushing glitter off her robe. "You say that every third Tuesday. Come on, sparklepaws, up we get."

Eventually, Tyme got her to Whimsy General Wellness Ward. She was admitted under the code ‘Sparkle-Induced Emotional Overload’ and placed on glitter watch.

Three days passed. Ainjoule didn't speak. She didn’t sparkle, either, which was more concerning.

Then, on the fourth day, her old psychiatrist returned.

Dr. Dimmlethorn.

He looked the same—rumpled lab coat, mismatched socks, eyes that had seen too much and somehow still chose compassion.

He didn’t say much. Just sat beside her bed and offered a tissue.

"So," he said eventually. "Glitter bomb, huh?"

Ainjoule blinked at him. "They abandoned me. The twig therapists. The moths. My backup glitter reserves."

He nodded. "And yet, you’re still here. Talking to me."

She sniffled. "I was trying to heal. With sequins."

"A noble effort," he replied, making a note. "Maybe next time, we scale it back a smidge."

She gave a small, broken giggle.

That was all it took. She talked. He listened. And somewhere between her breakdown and his gentle, grounded presence, something shifted.

Healing, it turned out, was a process. One that might involve glitter. But also, maybe, someone who would sit through the sparkle fallout with you.

And so, with her halo slightly crooked but shining once more, Ainjoule began again.

Ainjoule's glittering suprise