I spent three weeks helping a couple find their "forever home." They were incredibly picky, which I can handle, but they also wanted to see every property at exactly 6:15 PM because that's when "the energy of a home reveals itself." Fine. Whatever. I rearranged my entire life around their mystical viewing schedule. We finally found THE house. They loved it. Made an offer. Got it accepted. I was thrilled. Then two days before the inspection, the wife calls me sobbing. They're pulling out because she realized the street number adds up to 13 and her numerologist said it would "poison their marriage." I tried to gently point out that they'd been divorced twice already and neither of those houses had unlucky numbers, but apparently that was "not helpful." They're still looking, by the way. They text me listings at midnight asking me to calculate the numerology before they'll even consider a showing. I do it. Every time. Because apparently I have no self-respect left and also I really need this commission.