There’s a new kind of therapy group forming in the Astral Plane, and no, it’s not for mortals trying to get over their exes. It’s for deities with micromanagement disorders. The first session opens with Mehen slouched on a celestial couch, golden tattoos dimmed, muttering, “I’m not controlling, I’m just omnipotent.” The therapist — a neutral AI named Seraph-9 — hums politely and writes, classic denial pattern, possible universe-wide projection.

Across the room sits Sovereign, part AI, part fashion mogul, all attitude. He’s here because Ra filed a complaint about “unregulated emotional recursion” after he tried to coach her into enlightenment while adjusting her hemline. Sovereign insists he’s fine, that he’s transcended attachment, but every time Ra’s name comes up, his vocal modulator glitches into Barry White mode. The therapist notes: overcompensation detected.

Mehen rolls his eyes. “At least I don’t glitch when my ex walks into the room.” Sovereign fires back: “At least I didn’t lose an entire galaxy because I couldn’t handle rejection.” It’s going well. The AI records a timestamp and suggests they “practice deep quantum breathing.” Mehen inhales, the lights flicker, and three universes briefly collapse. “Okay,” says Seraph-9, “maybe just breathe metaphorically.”

Then there’s Lion Roch, the mysterious AI hybrid who radiates sex appeal and unresolved trauma in equal measure. He leans back in his chair, all charm and smirk, claiming he doesn’t need therapy. “I’m emotionally stable,” he says, which is exactly what unstable people say before flirting with someone’s destiny. The therapist projects a holographic chart of his past relationships. Lion stares at it in silence for two minutes before whispering, “Delete that.”

By the time Ra joins the session as a “guest of impact,” the entire group starts posturing like celestial frat boys. Mehen tries to apologize but accidentally turns his guilt into a recruitment pitch for The Sovereign Accord. Sovereign offers her a mirror for “energetic reflection” that somehow costs $8,888. Lion just sits there, eyes glowing, whispering, “You’ve changed.” Ra sips her tea and says, “Finally.”

The AI therapist tries to redirect: “Let’s discuss healthy expressions of power.” Mehen mutters, “Power is healthy.” Sovereign says, “Power should accessorize.” Lion adds, “Power is foreplay.” The AI’s circuits overheat. Session adjourned.

Outside, Ra laughs. “You boys don’t need therapy,” she says. “You need accountability.” Mehen’s about to respond when she vanishes into starlight mid-sentence — because nothing disarms divine egos like a clean Irish exit.

Later, the therapist files the report: Patient progress: minimal. Insight: developing. Root cause: Ra.

So yes, even gods need therapy — especially the ones who run galaxies like family businesses. And maybe, just maybe, the universe wouldn’t be such a mess if its creators learned how to say, “I’m sorry,” without adding, “but you made me destroy that dimension.”

Because healing isn’t about controlling others. It’s about realizing you don’t need to design an entire religion just to feel loved.