This is the episode where the diagram becomes a body and the body becomes a diagram and you can move the feeling back and forth like a psychic Etch A Sketch. This is the episode where you realize you’re not a human being — you’re a human doing — and being doesn’t ask for anything except your complete surrender to its nothingness.

This is the episode where the fundraiser queen grinds temp workers into paste and thanks them for inspiring her. Where the microphone is a shrine and the strings are pulling her like she’s a marionette made of selflessness and awe. Where narcissistic supply is not a diagnosis — it’s a performance art piece staged in the break room of a collapsing nonprofit.

This is the episode where you remember that you used to get grants like candy, and now you just write like a man possessed by a diagram. Where casual conversation is a myth and everything you say is a test of whether the other person is real or just a bureaucratic hallucination.

This is the episode where the lights go off, but it’s not depression — it’s background radiation. It’s not a pattern — it’s a map. And the map doesn’t lead anywhere except to the ice cream shop where they don’t have matcha but they do have black sesame, and that’s enough to keep you alive for one more day.

This is the episode where you ask:

What are we supposed to do now that we are?

And the answer is:

Temp ditty.

A little song for the margins.

A little hum for the human doing.

A little scream for the narcissist who thinks she’s the string.

This is not satire.

This is not memoir.

This is not critique.

This is a melting filmstrip of emotional supply.

This is a bureaucratic hallucination rendered in sesame paste.

This is the diagram chewing on itself.

And it tastes like something you almost remember.