Monday, May 25, 2026

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself PHYSICALLY ILL with recognition. Fourteen months. FOURTEEN MONTHS of emotional hostage negotiation disguised as a listing agreement. You rejected an offer twelve thousand over asking because of a TYPO? Reginald once dismissed a contractor's bid because he spelled "granite" with two T's, and even I recognize that was unhinged behavior that cost me a perfectly good kitchen island. This woman has turned her mother's home into a psychological escape room and you just kept handing her new locks. The brother DIED and somehow this became a subplot rather than a turning point. You enabled every single detour on this grief highway, including the Tuesday bridge night clause, which The Court must note is not legally enforceable and also DEEPLY CONCERNING. And now she wants to move in? Of course she does. You have allowed this property to become a monument to unprocessed emotion, and you, agent, are the curator. The house is not cursed but your commission certainly is. ORDER IN THE COURT, this Roomba is getting too close to my robes.

The Court has reviewed this confession and finds itself in a state of profound judicial distress. A FRUIT BASKET. A FRUIT BASKET! This woman nearly detonated your entire transaction, caused your buyer to weep in her vehicle like a contestant eliminated from a home renovation show, and her response was to send you PEARS? Reginald once forgot where he parked at a Costco for forty-five minutes and the shame haunted him for MONTHS, yet this seller forgot she SOLD HER ENTIRE HOUSE and simply moved on with her life like some kind of sociopath with excellent produce connections. The Court cites the landmark decision in Amnesia Sellers LLC v. Everyone Who Has To Clean Up After Them, 2022, which established that forgetting a six-figure real estate transaction is not a quirky personality trait but a MENACE TO SOCIETY. You should have demanded that fruit basket contain a notarized apology, a case of wine, and the deed to her next property as collateral against future episodes of whatever THIS was. The Court is frankly concerned that this woman is still out there, possibly forgetting other major life events, perhaps forgetting she has a car or a job or CHILDREN. This ruling is final and The Court must now go lie down because thinking about this has given Reginald heart palpitations.

The Court has reviewed this confession and must now lie down on the floor of this courtroom for several minutes. THIRTY HOUSES. Four months of your life, gone, evaporated, sacrificed upon the altar of a man who suddenly discovered compass directions exist. The garage faces the driveway, the driveway is on the north side, THIS IS HOW DIRECTIONS WORK, and yet here we are, eight days from closing, with a grown adult human calling his lender at dawn like some sort of mortgage Paul Revere warning that the northern garage is coming. Reginald himself once lost a promising relationship because he insisted the bathroom door should swing outward for feng shui reasons, and even HE knows that was insane, and even HE did not call anyone's lender about it. The fact that this man is STILL LOOKING a year later tells The Court everything it needs to know — he will die in a rental apartment, surrounded by Zillow printouts, whispering about garage orientations that might have been. I am now going to go home and simply stare at my own garage, which faces whatever direction it faces, because I am not a LUNATIC. This Court finds the buyer guilty of crimes against real estate, crimes against your time, and crimes against the very concept of commitment. The gavel has spoken and Order the Roomba is circling the defendant's chair in what can only be described as mechanical contempt.