Today, we bring you a special weekend preview edition of our newest feature, Butler Archetypes. Vibrate with vexation as SMS Specialist Renée Kraiem describes the person whom you most dread waking up to on a Sunday morning: The Texter. 

Rendering of an acid flashback experienced by Louise McCune after a rough night in 209.

It is important to remember that the Texter is most often disguised as a Power Studier—high bun, wool sweater atop Splendid spandex—making her even more elusive, like an ally.

She usually makes an appearance on Sunday morning, but never before 10:30, so that the only seats in the Green Zone are right between five sharers of a shoddy six-person. After setting down her bag to claim her seat, she spends about half an hour taking out differently colored notebooks which correspond to folders of the same colors; she’ll arrange these in neat piles, and shuffle them around a bit, knocking their corners into her table mates’ own accoutrement (“Sorry,” she mouths).

Next, she’ll settle into her chair and takes about five minutes to clack on her Blackberry keyboard. With a sigh, she rests her phone on the table and opens the cover of a notebook. Immediately, it erupts with a violent shudder; she must have a text.

You continue writing, undisturbed since you have Self-Control, and begin to craft your thesis: “The internal community [buzz] is the product of history [buzz] which, [buzz], in turn, [buzz], is shaking…and before you know it, the light shining in is blinding, and Low is upside down, and [buzz] you look down just for a second, and [buzz] omfg u no she vom’d last nite rite? #partyfoul, and [buzz]—oh dear God, she’s started to draft a sext…