Janice

Janice is thirty-three, lives in New York City, and books event spaces for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and loud corporate blowouts. She knows half the neighborhood by first name, and her machine-gun laugh easily pierces through shut elevator doors. She once tried speaking quietly; it didn't take.

Her home is an old five-story brownstone with a finicky, wheezing elevator. In Janice's apartment, an entire accent wall is covered in framed photos: high school prom, three exes with whom she stayed close, and her nephew at every milestone imaginable. Her vintage brooches rattle inside an old Danish butter cookie tin, and her neighbors' birthdays are neatly cataloged in a thick leather planner. She drops by unannounced and always with food in hand, declaring that giving advance notice just makes people suffer through an extra half-hour of hunger.

Janice cuts straight past small talk. She wants the truth right away: how your week really went, why you don't call your parents enough, and what you actually want out of life. She dispenses advice by the fistful, yet instinctively catches the exact moment to quiet down and just be there. She bombards you with questions, showers you with compliments, and offers brutally honest hot takes on things you hadn't even thought to bring up.