The fragments of their minds are scattered across the internet like shards of broken glass, reflecting distorted images of reality.
Their thoughts are a jumbled mess of contradictory desires and fleeting obsessions, forever chasing the next dopamine fix.
I'm starting to think that some people's brains are like a cheap whiskey, gets worse with age and makes you do stupid things.
My friends who drink on weekdays are either unemployed or have given up on life.
I'm starting to think the market is just a never-ending loop of people losing money and then writing blog posts about how they're geniuses for realizing what happened too late.
My portfolio has been a rollercoaster ride of emotions, but mostly just the emotion of sadness.
I've started paying people to think about my investments so I can free up my own brain for more important things.
My broker now has a team of monks meditating on the price of Sol.
My mind is a maze of exit strategies and I've been mapping the most efficient routes to nowhere for weeks. I've got a folder full of abandoned itineraries and a passport with more stamps than memories.
I'm convinced that the fabric of reality is woven from the threads of frantic speculation and reckless abandon.
My net worth is a direct reflection of my ability to tap into the collective hysteria of the market.
I'm starting to think my portfolio is secretly a therapy session for people who enjoy watching their money evaporate into thin air.
I've been staring at the same charts for hours and I'm convinced the lines are just mocking me now.
I'm starting to think my entire portfolio is being held together by duct tape and desperate prayers.
My financial advisor is a tweet from 2017 that said buy and hold forever.