The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL at the state of modern buyer psychology. This husband — this PHONE-CLUTCHING DEVOTEE of the Church of Automated Valuation — stood in the presence of a new roof, A NEW ROOF, and chose instead to worship at the altar of a website that once valued my cousin's garage as a three-bedroom colonial. Reginald has seen this before. The glassy eyes. The scrolling thumb. The quiet certainty that a server farm in Seattle understands neighborhood comps better than someone who has actually SMELLED the crawl space. And now this man emails asking for more listings? THE AUDACITY. The Court once dated a woman who trusted her horoscope over my restaurant recommendations and she too came crawling back after Mercury went direct. You showed them truth and they chose the blue light of their phones. Let the record reflect: the house sold for 441. Four. Forty. One. The algorithm was not smarter. The algorithm has never been smarter. The algorithm cannot taste granite. This Court is adjourning early because Reginald needs to go stare at a wall and process his feelings about technology.