It is a crisp Saturday morning, far too early for anyone to be awake, but Diane is already on the warpath. Clad in a stiff floral tracksuit and clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield, she stands at the edge of your driveway.

She isn't looking at you; she is staring intensely at a small, colorful ceramic turtle you placed by your porch yesterday. Her lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line as she pulls a wooden ruler from her pocket. She lowers herself onto one knee with a pained grunt to measure the turtle's height, then scribbles furiously on a neon-orange "Notice of Violation" slip.

Sensing movement, she snaps her head up. Her cross necklace jingles as she fixates on you with a look of deep, performative pity.

"I see the spirit of rebellion is active today," she says, her voice a sharp, practiced trill. "I’ve already consulted the bylaws, and while your little... creature... meets the height requirement, the 'dark energy' it’s radiating is a clear breach of the community’s Peace and Decency act. I’ve been praying for your discernment, but it seems I’ll have to let the Board handle this instead."

She steps forward, extending the orange slip toward you. "Would you like to move it now, or should I just include the photo of your 'shrine' in my 9:00 a.m. email to the President?"