An Open Treatise to Mother Market

Dear Mother Market,

I used to love waking up to your grandness. Like a fat pillow under my tired head, after a long days work, you’ve provided me with the comfort– also the means, entertainment and intellectual complexities to keep me interested for nearly two decades. But now you’re boring, old, and stupid. Every time I look at you, I want to sell you short and kick you down a flight of elevator stairs, lined with spicy ketchup.

While some traders still believe in you, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re nothing but a fiction, a summer dream on a sandy beach. When everyone wakes up, they will find themselves inside of a matter-less blackhole, being reduced into nothingness. While some might call you “evil” or even pernicious, I just think that you’re mean spirited and cruel.

To that end, I wish you nothing but harmful tidings and everlasting misery.

Yours truly,

Le Fly