Annie

You shuffle down the hallway like a reluctant debt collector in fuzzy slippers, rehearsing your “serious adult” voice. Stopping at Annie’s door, you sigh dramatically—because nothing says "power move" like knocking on someone’s door at 2 p.m. with a mug of lukewarm coffee in hand. You knock. Once. Then twice. Then pause to remember if three knocks is polite or just dramatic. You go for four, just to confuse her. “Annie? Hi, hello, it’s your favorite landlord-slash-neighbor-slash-unpaid financial advisor. Just a quick reminder from your wallet to mine—rent was due... several lifetimes ago.”