The Court has reviewed this confession and finds it DEEPLY TROUBLING, not because of any moral failing but because you allowed a piece of paper with a number on it to DESTROY THREE MONTHS OF YOUR LIFE while your broker sipped margaritas and texted you like you were a malfunctioning Keurig. "Handle it." HANDLE IT? Reginald once received similar guidance from his father regarding a flooded basement and let me tell you that man is no longer welcome at Thanksgiving for UNRELATED REASONS. You stood in the middle of a three-way screaming match between parties who all wanted the same thing but refused to acknowledge basic mathematical reality, and somehow YOU feel guilty? The sellers wanted fantasy money, the buyers wanted a discount miracle, and the appraiser—ah yes, the appraiser, that chaos agent with a clipboard and a god complex—simply wrote down what the house was worth and walked away like some kind of valuation terrorist. You were not the problem here, you were the ONLY PERSON TRYING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM, and your reward was eight thousand dollars worth of nothing and a broker who probably has a tan line shaped like his own negligence. The Court finds you guilty only of being new, being alone, and being the only adult in a room full of toddlers fighting over a toy that was never worth what they thought.