I was the Roger Stone of Wall Street this week, attention whoring and boasting around with flamboyant colors, only to be unceremoniously dispatched in the middle of the night — assets seized, pride dented good and plenty like a speeding hardball into the fender of your bullshit Toyota.
I traded to and fro. After I did that, I did it again. Every turn I tried to make was wrong — ending up in a surprise Jack in the Box knife to my fucking face.
Did I deserve this treatment?
Yes, and much more.
When you’re wrong, you should pay the price. Some pay it with their blood, others with money. Either way, losers will pay, always and severely.
I could bargain on about how this too shall pass and how I’ll get back into the swing of things next week and really knock out the competition. Truthfully, I hope I lose again and again and again and again — until there’s nothing left. Sadly, that is not likely to occur. My affliction is this roach-like persistence to prosper — always riding out the bad times into the sunset of the good. Those days are often coupled with a schizo like frenzied happiness that spills out sloppily onto the blog with tales of space exploration, large dicked gains, time travel, and defeating my many “enemies” until their bones are broken into dust — all showcased with headline photos of statues and exposed genitalia.
I really should see someone about my issues.
Off to wolf down a few cookies and then hop on a call.
Ciao.
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