Every once in awhile, I like to lie down during the afternoon, in order to clear my mind and focus on ideas. I concoct strategies and run numbers, calculating potential profit and losses and stress scenarios, whereby I might wipe myself the fuck out. Well, as I was lying there (on the couch) just 10 minutes ago, enduring the never-ending spate of heart palpitations that plague me, it dawned on me that the line of work I am in is killing me, literally.
I mean, some of you have day jobs as waitresses or sanitation workers. My job is this, every single day, for the rest of my fucking life, until I move to the mountainous regions of Puma Punku of course. Nothing about managing money is easy, even during the easy times. There is always mystery, like “what the fuck will happen next” type of shit. It’s a never-ending battle between idiots and morons, trying to hit one another with gravity hammers to take all of the money.
While this is happening, Mrs. Fly is gingerly buying shit online, planning out our next vacation, where I will endure pain and suffering due to information withdrawal. Because of these facts, there is NO WAY any of my children will enter the field of finance. Don’t get me wrong. There are perks, all to do with lots of money and whores, if you so choose that lifestyle. However, at the end of the day, life shouldn’t be lived in front of a fucking computer screen, rooting for nerds to manipulate the market, while making fun of other nerds in bow ties. None of these people are cool. They’re fucking misfits, obsessed with their own reflection, who’d sell short their mothers life expectancy for a quick buck.
I am 100% certain my sour attitude has something to do with the fact that my stocks are getting smashed into small pieces and tossed into flaming barrels of garbage. Nevertheless, in true dork fashion, I am eagerly awaiting the “reflex rally” so that I can make more money, enhancing my AI personality traits, enabling me to superficially suck the blood out of my enemies heads, like a vampire on speed.
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