The house has been listed for a week.
One couple has expressed interest. One. And I suspect they were out more for a pleasant October drive than to investigate purchasing a house.
My enthusiasm has waned. It was artificially propped up by our optimistic realtor, who believed that the price was low enough relative to all the other houses on the market to attract a do-it-yourself guy. A real go getter. A handyman. A visionary.
I no longer believe that.
The pictures in the listing reveal the truth. Warts and all. Annie Leibovitz could not disguise the distressed condition of this joint.
Here is what the listing reveals to friends and relatives:
Here is the end result of a guy who got it all wrong. He bought a fucking house. A fucking house. Two, actually over his lifetime.
He had no business buying a house. Ever. He could never make the inevitable repairs that would result from age. He never had that talent. He could not afford to hire anyone to make those repairs because he underachieved professionally.
He was a victim of his own goddamn creation.
He bought a house because that's what you do. Didn't think about it. In fact, the expression "I wasn't thinking" applies so many times in his life, resulting in so many problems, that it should be forever associated only with him.
And now he is relying on this house to bail him out of a tight situation. To buy him retirement. Pretty unlikely scenario.
In fact, the only way this house will sell is if the price is lowered to $19.95, with another house thrown in for good measure. "Act now and you will get a second house at no additonal cost."
The listing reveals the sad truth of his life in stark detail for all to see. Kind of like a pre-death epitaph.
It would be comforting to delete the pictures and hide the truth, but it's too late for that. People know.
Still, things are bound to get better.
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