Somehow my atomic alarm clock with battery backup fails to wake me at my customary time. The iPhone backup chimes are muffled after falling off the bed and under a pile of blankets. The air conditioning coil froze into a four inch block overnight and the house is a sultry eighty one degrees.
Forced to forego my methodical morning, I opt for a glass of water and a slice of untoasted bread smothered in ghee and almond butter. I take said rations via tray to my desk and spill a bit of water on the mouse. The mouse is fine but all the signs are there, it will be a day determined to challenge. After taking my first bite of bread I power up all three monitors and accidentally smudge peanut butter on my second screen.
My eyes struggle to focus on the screen because I have slept with my contacts in by mistake effectively caking my eyeballs with thin plastic sheaths. Nasdaq futures are deep in the red, down over 45 points after printing an abnormal 60 point range. I cannot adjust my chart to show current prices until I wash the nut butter off my sticky hands. We are off the lows which are another 10 points lower. My intermediate term composite tells the story, it looks something like this:
Rushed, I mark up the market profile levels in haste and struggle to locate all the key price levels from back on 08/22. I barely have time to write my hypotheses and hit send on the hypos as the opening bell sounds. Just at that moment, my secondary computer which houses key intelligence including news feeds, The 12631 power group, The PPT, twitter, blogs, and stock charts forces a shutdown. I overlooked the 15 minute countdown to finish installing the god damned latest Windows 8 update.
Over the next 15 minutes, while the computer slowly reboots, the market open drives lower. The order flow meter is screeching the whole way down, my portfolio is a sea of red, down well over 4% by now, and the overnight low has been breached, sending us into the land of low volume pockets below—levels leap frogged in the preposterous gap-and-grind higher swing. I have no time to scan the week’s economic calendar and miss noting the ISM manufacturing number at 10am which turns out to be a reasonable excuse for another wave of selling to push into the marketplace.
Twitter announces they have prices a secondary offering, effectively shaving 8% from the share price overt the weekend.
By 11:15 the market is down 70 points and my book just a touch over six percent. I am forcing myself to ignore the empty pit that is my stomach, foregoing nourishment and staring like a deer caught in headlights. I am wearing purple underwear, why the hell am I wearing purple underwear? Of all the days to wear such royal garments, gluttonous fool.
Famished, I react and throw on some risk, more than intended because panic has set in and all planning is now subject to abandonment. The plan is shelved for reliance upon old fashioned survival hormones which are coursing through my veins.
Part of me wakes up and I step away for lunch. I slide cold leftover meat off skewers while swilling down the lukewarm glass of water I never finished from the morning. Still hungry, I eat a large plate of spaghetti and a piece of chocolate cake. 20 minutes later, I am clinging to conciseness after my spiked glucose crashes through the floor.
I nap, for the love of nourishment.
I wake, now 3:30pm and my book down just a touch over ten percent. We snap off the lows as the President makes an impromptu announcement from the White House. The message is obfuscated but mentions ISIS and we rally. Emboldened and overrun with patriotism, I press more risk into any chart I can find. I feel pretty good because the market is holding its snap off the lows. In the final 10 minutes a real liquidation wave of selling swells into the market and takes me with it. The Nasdaq has lost over 100 points of value and is now trading inside of 08/15’s gnarly neutral print. I stop out my winning positions in a last second attempt to ‘right’ my ship, ignoring the new risk which has managed to lose forty percent of its value since the morning.
The market closes, I read philosophy books and eat McDonalds on the couch. Unable to sleep, I make a third attempt to watch The Grand Budapest Hotel and fall asleep sitting up, fast food bag in tote.
For some awful reason you cannot seem to shake this song which is stuck and looping in your mind: