My broker just sent out an office-wide email about "maintaining professionalism" and "respecting shared spaces" because apparently someone ate her leftover sushi from the break room fridge. She included a photo of the empty container. There's now a sign-up sheet for fridge shelves. I'm a grown adult who's closed forty-seven transactions this year and I now have an assigned refrigerator quadrant. Meanwhile, this same woman takes a forty percent split on deals she's never touched, hasn't updated our website since 2019, and still doesn't know how to use DocuSign without calling me for help. But sure, let's have a team meeting about the sushi incident. She's also hinting that whoever confesses will "be forgiven" like she's running some kind of real estate confessional booth. I didn't eat your California roll, Brenda, but I am updating my resume. The agent in the desk next to mine and I have started communicating exclusively through meaningful glances whenever she sends these emails. We're basically developing our own language at this point.