Trading For Ticks on A Summer Friday

Sticking around to trade futures on a Friday afternoon is an exercise in futility. The world is literally exploding with plant life, a pornography of plants desperately attempting to reproduce and populate the land, and you’re combating an ice cold sever rack that lives in the basement of the CME.

Does that sound like a proper expenditure of life force?

Now I love trading, I love it, but not as much as I love watching plants fornicate.

The markets ended the week trading poorly. Unless you’re a European investor, it’s likely you couldn’t care less about ‘the tape’ on a Friday. If you’re book has even a modest does of Chinese degeneracy then ride or die, you ended the week in the green.

I care about the tape, every day, so I have to safeguard myself from…myself. My finite willpower reservoir diminishes by Friday, and if I cannot busy myself elsewhere, whist sitting in the trading turret, it’s likely I’ll start blasting off shots. The robots, pleased by my engagement, converge on me and mangle my limbs with mechanical disregard.

I pass this tale onto you, as a caution of sorts, to enjoy life, especially on a Friday.  Compel yourself to swim in a pool or find a Greek to pick a fight with. If you must work, do it because it will enrich you.

Otherwise, your time is better spent wearing a sombrero sipping tequila, FTW.