When I lived in Florida, there was a local realtor named (I am not shitting you) Polly Esther. Poly Ester. Polyester. Not only did Polly not shy away from her unfortunate name, she wore it (and by it, I mean the near-eponymous fabric) like a badge of honor in her bland, smiling real estate ads. So fucking what I'm named after a synthetic remnant of the eighties - you'll still deal with me! As far as I can remember, this was the moment I began questioning the legitimacy of realtors.
In 2010 I bought a condo in Chicago. Last week, almost exactly seven years later, I sold it. In the warm afterglow of the transaction, I found myself wondering whether this was a good financial decision. Do houses really provide a good vehicle for generating wealth, or would I have been better off investing in the stock market? To answer this question, I turned to math.
Noah's Inner Monologue
Scribblings of a man who can barely operate an idiotproof website.