I spent four months with a buyer who had a 47-point checklist for their "perfect home." Not an exaggeration—I counted. They needed a south-facing kitchen, a north-facing bedroom, exactly three stairs to the front door (not two, not four), and a garage that could fit their vintage car collection they didn't actually own yet but "planned to start." Every house we toured, they'd pull out this laminated sheet and go item by item while I stood there slowly losing my will to live. We saw 63 properties. Sixty-three. Last week they finally found "the one." I drafted the offer, scheduled the inspection, mentally calculated my commission. Then they called to say they'd decided to rent for another year because Mercury was in retrograde and their astrologer advised against major purchases until spring. I smiled, said I completely understood, and told them to reach out when they were ready. Then I sat in my car in their apartment complex parking lot and ate an entire sleeve of Oreos in complete silence. They texted yesterday asking if I could send them listings "just to browse." I'm considering a career change.