The Court has reviewed this timeline with the same horror one reserves for watching a toddler reach for a hot stove while the babysitter checks Instagram. Monday at 2:05pm, when the defendant's client invoked the sacred defense of "my kitchen is nicer," this Court expected — nay, DEMANDED — immediate intervention, perhaps a wellness check, certainly a firm discussion about the difference between granite countertops and twenty-eight thousand dollars in cold hard equity. Instead, the defendant submitted comps like a good little soldier, watched the appraiser hold firm like appraisers DO because they are soulless arbiters of mathematical reality, and then stood idly by as this woman relisted at THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. Reginald himself once lost a bidding war over a condo because the seller "felt the energy was worth more" and I am STILL in therapy about it, which is to say The Court understands kitchen-based psychosis but does not excuse those who fail to quarantine it. You watched a 340 offer walk out the door so your client could eventually accept 308, a negative thirty-two thousand dollar journey powered entirely by backsplash hubris and Zillow brain poisoning. The gavel has spoken, Order the Roomba is circling in what I can only describe as profound disappointment, and Reginald must now go lie down.