As I mentioned at the top of this entry, four separate realtors lied to us, telling us they were prospective buyers so they could tour the house, only to whip out their business card before they left and doing everything short of sacrificing a goat in our honor to convince us to hire them. I guess they expected us to be impressed with their ability to smooth-talk their way into our home, like we were putting together a crew for a heist and we needed a grease man.

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"I kinda, sorta broke into your home. Let me handle your money for you!"

Other charming tactics included leaving notes that they had shown up at the house entirely uninvited during work hours for a surprise tour, which is something a psychopath does to torment his police detective arch-rival. Another tactic was to call once a day, every day, for weeks on end, and make blind cash offers so pathetically low they would be better suited as a down payment on a Barbie Dream House playset.

This went on for months before we'd had enough. This was our sale. It was time to start taking matters into our own hands. That's when we learned ...

After weeks of hearing exclusively from real estate sharks, I went to Home Depot and picked up a "For Sale by Owner" sign. We wrote all the relevant information, and then hammered it into the grass on the front lawn. As I was hammering, a car pulled up and the driver asked for a selling price. I say again: before the sign had been fully stabbed into the flesh of the Earth, we were already getting interest from real people.

In the following weeks, my phone was bombarded with upwards of 10 calls a day, all from people who were legitimately interested in the house. We had multiple showings, and some (not great) offers were made. An $8 "For Sale" sign hammered into the front lawn generated more interest than a website specifically created to help advertise houses on the market. You bet your ass "Yub Nub" was ringing through my head for the next several weeks.

We had proven, once and for all, that cold, shallow technology will always lose to the tangible, resilient forces of the real world. As an unexpected consequence, however, this meant we had to start dealing with the real world -- real buyers, real money, real interest, and real realtors. Shit was about to get real, and we were entirely unprepared to handle the next step of the process ...

My girlfriend and I are not handy around the house. Recently, we felt a renewed appreciation for life after we spent a harrowing 45 minutes trying to install a ceiling light fixture. We told Death to take a hike, maybe to return in a few weeks when we use a three-foot step ladder to hang a picture. That being said, we fixed the shit out of that house thanks to YouTube tutorials and a series of under-educated guesses that miraculously worked out for the best. We were proud of our handy work.

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It used to be a burned-down crack den.

Potential buyers could not say the same. They were too busy talking shit about the house, out loud and with passion, during their tours. And I get it. These people want to buy not just a house but a home. They're going to give up a lot of money for a building they might want to die within; they want a suburban mausoleum. It makes sense that they'd be critical.

On the other hand, it's also the place my girlfriend was raised in. Most of her fondest childhood memories happened in the rooms, hallways, and yards these people were callously talking shit about as they made their way through the house. She didn't even know she had such a deep affection toward the house until randos off the street told her the paint was ugly.

Selling a house is the only time we let strangers into our personal spaces so they can rip them down with the most petty grievances and complaints. The seller can do nothing but stand there and take it. We couldn't cut in and say, "HEY, BACK OFF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT! THE PAINT IS FINE! YOU'RE UGLY!" They don't care about the memories attached to every ding and scuff, every charming but retrospectively bad design choice your family made over the years. They see a festering, maggot-filled puss bucket ... albeit one with potential, but that patio needs redone and, ew, honey, have you seen that closet? I don't know who the current residents are, but I bet they're a pack of disgusting pig fuckers based solely on that closet.

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Ugh. Definitely pig fuckers.

Dealing directly with potential buyers was exhausting and time-consuming. After about six months of trying to sell the place on our own, we angrily swallowed our pride and declared ...