I have 4,000 dollars to my name at 33 and I want to walk you through why that makes me richer than my father ever was.
My father saved. My father saved his entire life, contributed to the 401k, matched the match, read the prospectus, and he retired, and he is, right now, anxious about money in a paid-off house, rationing a number he spent 40 years afraid to enjoy. He won the game and he is still scared. I have looked at that, clearly, with the eyes of my generation, and I have decided not to play a game whose winners look like that.
They have a name for it now. Soft saving. Doom spending. The economists say it like a diagnosis, like we are sick, like the reason we are not saving is a character flaw and not the spreadsheet. 56 million workers do not even have a retirement plan at work. 31 percent of people think they are on track, which means 69 percent of an entire country has quietly concluded the same thing I have, except I am the only one brave enough to be at peace with it.
Here is the math they do not want you to do. If I save aggressively, I can retire, frightened, at 70, into a world that the same economists tell me will be on fire and run by AI. Or I can decline the deal. I can take the money I would have put in an account I cannot touch for 37 years and I can put it into now, which is the only fund with a guaranteed payout, because now is the only thing I am certain to live to spend.
I buy an 11 dollar oat-milk matcha every single morning. The personal finance men online tell me this is why I am poor. 11 dollars times 365 times 40 years, compounded, is apparently a house. I have run that number, and my response to it is simple: I would rather have the matcha. The house they are describing is a house I get at 70, theoretically, if the market cooperates, if I do not get sick, if the world holds together. The matcha I get at 8am. I have chosen the asset that exists.
I have 4,000 dollars in a high-yield savings account and I call it my forever fund, which is a joke, but it is the kind of joke you tell so you do not have to feel the thing under it, and the thing under it is that 4,000 dollars is not the beginning of safety, it is the entire ceiling of it, and I have decided that since I cannot build the wall, I am not going to spend my one life carrying bricks toward a wall I will never finish. I am going to sit in the sun, with the matcha, in front of the unbuilt wall, and call the sitting wisdom.
I financed Coachella. 6 installments. The app let me split it, which the personal finance men also hate, but the personal finance men have never stood in a field at golden hour feeling, for one weekend, like the future was a rumor and not a sentence. That weekend cost me 1,100 dollars I will be paying off into the fall, and I have decided it was the single best allocation of capital I have ever made, because it bought a memory, and a memory is the only investment that pays out immediately and cannot be clawed back by a market correction.
My mother mails me articles. Physical articles, printed, about the magic of compound interest, about how if I had started at 22, and I read them, and I love her, and she is describing a religion whose god I have personally watched fail to show up for my entire adult life. Compound interest assumes a stable 40 years. I have not seen a stable 40 months. She is preparing me for a world that ended before I was old enough to inherit it.
I downloaded a budgeting app. I deleted it on day 3. It showed me a chart of my life as a series of failures to subtract, and I realized that the app was not going to make me richer, it was just going to make me ashamed in higher resolution, and I have enough shame at standard resolution, so I deleted it, for my peace, and protecting my peace is the only retirement plan that vests daily.
They call it doom spending. I call it refusing to defer a life to a future that keeps getting repossessed.
I have 4,000 dollars. I am 33. The matcha was excellent this morning. My mother's latest article is on the counter, unopened, next to a Coachella wristband I have not cut off because cutting it off feels like admitting the weekend is over.
And honestly, everyone in my group chat is talking about how the only real way out now is to just go all in on one asymmetric bet, one coin, one stock, one moonshot, because slow money is dead and the only wealth left is sudden, and I have been looking at a few, and I think I see one, and I think, for once, I am early.
I have never felt more free.
Shut the fuck up, you worthless hack.
You are a 55 year old man named Raymond whose dad was a successful attorney and who fictionalizes other black people into the working class you never knew.
Your entire existence is taking the check.
You are lower than a black slaver, Ray.
The Holy Trinity is dead. Sadly due to the Orchard Pool exploit, I had to dump our entire $ZEC bag.
- While I think it's extremely unlikely of any minting, it cannot be formally cryptographically proved impossible
- The privacy from AI, govt, big tech narrative demands perfection not improbability
- I read about the exploit yday, and didn't appreciate how it violated my narrative mental map. The 30% dump, made me rethink, and I had to take profit on the entire position
- We will consistently re-evaluate our thinking and if my assumptions are proven incorrect, will rebuy, hopefully at lower prices.
- Privacy is priceless and I have no issue eating humble pie and rebuying much higher.
We still hold $WLD and are excited for Lord Elon to pump our bags.
โCrypto is dead.โ
Shut up.
The last thing we need is another trader grifting off the hard work of builders because heโs too deficient to produce value in any other way.
Cry about the same memecoins you happily posted earlier like a child playing peek-a-boo.
@ThinkingUSD Instead of saying "can I have your number?"
Make it an order: "give me your number"
Better still just tell her what you want from her right away. Saves you both time.