Strangers are in my house saying bad things about me. I can hear them.

"Yeah, I guess you could call the art abstract. But I'd say it is more accurate to call it horrid."
"Color blindness. What else would explain that ghastly pale peach on these kitchen walls?"

"He reads that? What a philistine."

I have no idea who these people are, and (full disclosure) I can't hear them, not technically.

I am in a sports bar across town, drinking beer, eating chicken wings, and decrying the wretched plays of my favorite team.

For all I know, none of the people in my house are saying any of those things. For all I know, no people are even in my house.

But I would rather have strangers in my house trashing my taste in art and paint colors and rigged-up books than have no one there at all. Yes, I am happy to bare my soul to strangers, pleased to run naked through the brambles of public scrutiny, downright ecstatic to invite the world to come into my domicile and pass judgment.

For I need their tender attention. And by tender, I mean legal tender. As in money.
I am, you see, selling my house.