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3/17/2019 3:57pm

So I don’t know if it’s cool or not to go with code names at this school but I wanted a clean break with my old school, the Woodrow Bishop Help Center Training Academy.

When the Army of Kid Journalists released the documents, the writing was on the wall and we all knew the school would be shut down. So we took new identities and transferred to other schools. I applied to like 100 schools, because of my energy issues, includung Fusion Economics High School (evil conspiracy high school more like it) and Deeply Held Passionate Beliefs High School (posers) and Rumble Cat Prep (too rough) and Make-a-Scene High (too drama) but I just know Psyhigh is the right place for me and to blossom into the psychic I was always meant to be!

Join me, won’t you?

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3/29/2019 9:46pm

It really was a shame what happened at Woodrow Bishop Help Center Training Academy. I mean, obviously, because students like me and Chrysanthemum Jones and The Squeaker (also using a code name now) had to find whole new schools, but also because what was happening at Woodrow Bishop was very special. It was a trade school, but it was also a school of healing arts, which is what working in a help center is really all about.

Maybe if the school had promoted that fact more they could have stayed in honest business and not run into the trouble that they did.

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4/2/2019 8:26pm

Do you know I got to use my healing powers today?

There was a man with a big black goat on a leash. Naturally I like goats. But this man was being mean to his goat. He had it at the grocery store and nobody else could see it. He tugged it around on its leash like a mean guy and the goat didn't like it and all the people around him could tell. Plus, the smell. Unhappy goats have a special smell.

He tugged the goat down the aisle and it knocked over a Mountain Dew display. With its butt. This just made the man meaner. And the goat smellier. Everybody was frowning.

"Excuse me do you know where the corn meal is?" I asked him very sweetly.

"Hnnnn? No."

"I want to make cornbread."

He stared at me.

"To eat with honey."

He stared at me more.

"You know. Honey? Huuuuunneeeeee?" and I made a buzzing sound and moved my hands like a bee.


"Yes! Honey! You know--in the bottle shaped like a bear?"


"Yes! Bear! Shaped like this!"

And I made the shape of the bear bottle in the air with my hands.

He stared at me.


And right away with both of his hands he made the wavy two blob vase shape of the bear shaped bottle of honey in the air between us.

That's when I grabbed the leash of that black goat and got on out of there.

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4/8/2019 5:40pm

One thing I did not like about the Woodrow Bishop Help Center Training Academy was being put in the Time Box. It was their polite way of punishment. If you gave people too much help the shift manger would say “We’re going to have to Time Box that” and part of you would be trapped in a place outside of time and space, sort of like being in detention, but forever. After a few dozen Time Boxings you find the majority of your being cut off from reality and all you could do was read the script and not really offer the healing arts.

That’s a part of what went wrong at the Woodrow Bishop Help Center Training Academy.

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4/13/2019 8:27pm

Learning the healing arts at Woodrow Bishop Help Center Training Academy really gave me insights into people. In everyday life you’re taught to take people at face value, and ignore all the rich data that’s there in front of your third eye.

“OK class, open your books to page 138.”

The teacher has unresolved issues about their childhood, and now their parents are aging.

“Chrysanthemum Jones, please summarize the reading.”

The teacher uses Chrysanthemum as a proxy for himself as a student, trying to leverage Chrysanthemum‘s lack of confidence and borderline performance into a public failure that he can relive but as the outside god-like perspective, enjoying his own punishment as representative performance.

Chrysanthemum begins to falter. Of course she didn’t do the reading.

“Mr. Sadisme?”

“Please don’t interrupt, Energetica.”

“But Mr. Sadisme, there are worms growing out of my brain.”

I show him my hands full of tubeworms, projected through my imagicore.

“I, uh, well, go to the nurse’s office at once.”

The class erupts with uncomfortable laughter. Mr. Sadisme is forced to take another approach.

Creating a diversion is always an excellent first option to this kind of problem solving.

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