Los derechos fundamentales emanan de la naturaleza humana, no de una concesión gubernamental.
Desconozco toda autoridad del estado sobre mi individualidad.
Mi soberanía es plena y legítima por ley natural.
@GobiernoMX@GobiernoJalisco#LeyNatural#LibertadIndividual
BTC is dead to me.
For the first time since 2014, when my usual “should I buy BTC?” friends came for their scheduled emotional support hotline, I told them no.
I am confident there is no longer a trade in BTC because the original trade is gone.
BTC was the first memecoin.
Do not waste time @'ing me, to me it is obvious.
As you all know, every great memecoin needs a narrative powerful enough to make people believe they are doing something more meaningful than buying an asset from someone else. BTC had the best narrative of all time.
Rebellion against inflation, fiat, banks, central banks, and the establishment.
That was the narrative. But what mattered more was the raw engine underneath it: ESCAPE.
BTC gave ordinary people the first internet native asset that could plausibly let them escape the rat race without needing access to the incumbent class. Before BTC, immense wealth creation was mostly gated by proximity. You needed access to early equity, private deals, high finance, institutional networks, valuable real estate, or some other lane controlled by people already inside the system (Boomers). BTC changed that because anyone online could buy the asset before the ruling class.
That was BTC’s trade and its monopoly.
It gave ordinary people a way to escape the rat race by opting out of a system that had kept access, upside, and wealth creation mostly in the hands of the incumbent class.
The rebellion was the story -> The escape was the trade -> The monopoly was being the only asset online that could credibly offer both.
That monopoly no longer exists.
The irony is that BTC created the blueprint for the world that made BTC less important. It taught the internet that an asset did not need traditional fundamentals if it had belief, liquidity, attention, narrative, and enough people willing to treat the trade as a way out.
Financial nihilism + magic internet money.
That is the blueprint BTC gave the world. Forget fundamentals. Trade the narrative. Coordinate online. Let the greater fool mechanism create wealth for the people who arrived early enough.
Think about it......Since BTC, every market has been hyper gamblified. Stocks trade like memes. Coins trade like memes. AI tokens trade like memes. Prediction markets trade like memes. Anything that lives on the internet can become a trade, a belief system, and a possible escape hatch from the rat race.
BTC was powerful when it was the only internet asset that gave outsiders a credible way to get rich before the establishment arrived. Now the internet creates that setup constantly.
BTC also lost the rebellion narrative. Institutional adoption killed that part of the story. The asset that started as a way to opt out of the system is now owned through ETFs, marketed by asset managers, held by corporate treasuries, and represented culturally by Saylor running a balance sheet strategy.
BTC lost the 2 things that made it matter.
It lost the rebellion because the establishment absorbed it.
It lost the escape monopoly because every internet asset now competes to become the next rat race exit.
The store of value story was always secondary. The inflation hedge story was always secondary. The hard money story was always secondary. The main function was escape.
BTC was the first trade that made outsiders believe they could beat the system from outside the system.
Now that function lives everywhere.
To all the BTC maxis, with love.
-XY
@cherrycrushTV 1- wen i realized I forgot to do poopsies before weighing
2-wen started raining and it was my nap time and I fell sleep comfie
3-wen my eating time got zync w my cat eating time so theres no staring contest while I eat
$sui nigerian community
Niggas wants more useless campaigns w ugly content to farm more usd to dump on charts
Not very sustainable model for pa
Somone fix that
Black people are more biologically suited to the chemical conditions of modern existence than any other race on earth. They're supermutants built to exert intense displays of force, speed, and violence while their bodies run on the most putrid swill imaginable.
Black people will eat sour sugar coated corn starch shards and jelly melon kool aid syrup cubes, waylaying the incumbent waves of sugar rushes through a perpetually sustained train engine of weed smoke in their lungs that enhances their genetically granted subhuman IQ sloggery.
The core of their being is a series of biochemical tornadoes, all cancelling each other out into a chaotic stillness. Their hormone system is a nitroglycerin bomb that vibrates in unsettling anticipation for the most minor sensory input to trigger them into caving in an elderly retiree's skull into the corner of a trash bin at McDonald's.
Black people eat styrofoam and crisco while packing their kid's lunches with sour skittles and cornflour dust. They'll grow up eating nothing but candy, maturing into 6 foot tall ogres at age 13.
Much like slaves could pick cotton all day on a diet of pig guts and crawdads cooked inside a dirt hole for 14 hours straight, the modern black will pour an entire tub of sugar, salt, and rapeseed oil into their gullet before exerting themselves expeditiously. There are D-line tacklers on college football teams that regularly exert the daily Newton output of an industrial hammer mill fueled entirely by blue gatorade, nutter butters, and spicy dust sunflower seeds.
Beyond the taste, the vibrant colors suggest a childlike essence to their impulses. An eternal Shape Store out of the foods they eat, like a parade of Niggy Wonkas bedazzling their world in a technocolor fiesta of artificial flavoring. Divorced from any ancestral connection to their already pre-civilization bare mud culture, black people have borrowed the fruits of industrialization to invent something completely new beyond any scope of comprehension.
Black culture and its symbiosis of artificial elements and consumer products represents a natural organism completely adapting and thriving in the conditions of a post-industrial society. Rather than fighting against the entropy of biological health, they accelerate their own life cycles into rapidly dying and reproducing. Each wave of deaths induced through diabetes, gunshot wounds, crashed cars, heart disease, and prison stabbings slowly erodes against the barriers until they reach a state of equilibrium. They're much like orcs, consciously weaving through the limitations of normal human beings and carving out a niche of constant suffering and joy in abrupt oscillations.
As much as we despise the level of disruption they cause in society, their turbulence causes an extreme level of striving necessity that creates new elements of culture. They'll continue to slobber over pustules of aspartame coated pork fat and guzzle cough medicine sewer runoff, sprinting and hollering the entire time on all fours to climb 20 foot tall fences while being chased by the police.
They'll gather and howl and bluster and burn, exploding in a great societal supernova to beat their chest over the ashes of western civilization, corn syrup and Jolly Rancher malt liquor coursing through their veins. A brief reveille celebrating something they don't understand, ignorant to the dark storm cloud of Chinese slaughter cruelty and mestizo turboviolence pesticide coming from both flanks to eradicate them from modern existence.
And as is true for all fallen opponents in history, the traces of their spirit will reside on in the cultures that too replaced them. A chunk of pineapple marinaded in strawberry sugar as part of a 50-spice pot of boiling oil stew. A grunting ebonic element nestled into caveman gurbled Spanglish. Something not quite Asian, not quite white, not fully brown, neither human nor animal, embedded with wires stained in smoke. A shambler of the technopocalypes, sifting through piles of circuitry to rip gold flakes out for salvage.
A modern human in a time beyond your great grandchildren, r-type favela warrior jumbled beyond the comprehension of you or your fellow ancestors as you look down at him running, crawling, hiding, and evading killbots and acid rain. He chops a rat's head off before sprinkling gunpowder and chili flakes on its barely cooked carcass.
He rips bits of its flesh with fingers scarred by flechette-applied micro RFID chips, stuffing morsels of meat into a purple grape-flavored radioactive sugar simulant. Right after he stuffs it into a bare toothed mouth under an unshielded sun, you as his observant ancestor hear the ritualistic grace litany of his age and time:
Dih bih guh. Dah bih tuh.