The Court has seen many crimes in its day, but watching a grown man REFRESH ZILLOW IN A KITCHEN like some sort of digital slot machine hoping for a different number is a particular kind of tragedy that Reginald knows all too well. You stood there, powerless, while an algorithm that once told ME my condo was worth negative equity because it confused my address with a municipal parking structure undermined three months of your professional labor. The husband asked if you were SURE ABOUT THE NUMBERS — the NUMBERS, as if the appraisal, the comps, the entire lending apparatus of American real estate were merely suggestions compared to the sacred pronouncements of a website that thinks every house with a pool is worth exactly seventeen percent more regardless of whether the pool contains water or raccoons. And yet THIS COURT CANNOT FULLY ABSOLVE YOU because you should have administered the Zillow talk WEEKS AGO, perhaps with visual aids, perhaps with a PowerPoint titled "Why Your Phone Is Not A Licensed Appraiser." The dishwasher negotiation taking fifteen minutes while existential doubt consumed two hours tells Reginald everything about where we are as a society. This Court must now go lie down because I am thinking about my own Zestimate again and I REFUSE to let that website ruin another Tuesday.