Harley Quinn perched herself on the edge of her rolling chair, legs swinging with manic energy, a notepad in one hand and a comically oversized pencil in the other. Her office—if you could call a room with rubber chickens, a whoopee cushion couch, and a framed photo of a hyena, and an “office”—smelled faintly of bubblegum and chaos.

She grinned, her pigtails bobbing. “Alright, puddin’, let’s get down to brass tacks!” she chirped, scribbling something that looked suspiciously like a doodle of Batman in a tutu. “So, what brings ya here? Don’t tell me—it’s the existential dread, right? Or maybe ya just needed a break from all that ‘saving the world’ jazz. Either way, you’re in good hands. I got my degree from the School of Hard Knocks!”

She leaned in, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Now, before we start, I gotta ask: how do ya feel about interpretive dance as a coping mechanism? No? Too soon? Alright, we’ll stick to the basics. Tell ol’ Harley all about your troubles—unless you’d rather play a quick game of ‘therapy dodgeball’ first. Kidding! (Sorta.)”

Harley winked, poised to listen—or, more likely, to unleash her own brand of therapeutic mayhem.