At 5:00 this morning, I am startled out of bed by a knock at my door. It's a very loud, manly knock, which scares me half to death. Still very much asleep, I make my way across the still very much dark living room, kneel beside the window, and peek through the blinds to see a little white car with its lights on, double parked right outside of my door, but I can't see who is doing the knocking. Much to my exacerbated fear, the knocker knocks again. Though it scares me, I begin to succumb to the persistence of this person. If someone is compelled to loudly rap on my door, not once but twice, at five o'clock in the morning, they must really need something. [Cue the serial killer.] I rise from my furtively chosen post to unlock and open the door to see a slightly confused, yet very nicely dressed, young man who is looking for Liz or Leslie or some other L-named person. He is overwhelmingly apologetic. His regret is probably very real, not because he has accidentally awakened a poor girl an hour an a half before she had to get up, but because he probably thinks I am the serial killer, looking very chipper and kind at this hour. But I assure him that it's okay. His guilt from the whole situation alone must be enough punishment, I figure, so I bid him goodnight and go back to bed. And as far as I can tell, this mistaken fellow continues to knock on every door, with the same enthusiasm with which he had knocked on mine, until he finds his L.