You Are Weak
Listen up, you pathetic clowns! I’m done—DONE—with all of you whining about the stock market crashing like it’s the end of the damn world! Oh, poor you, your little numbers are dropping, your retirement’s screwed, and you’re out here trembling like a bunch of gutless cowards! You know what that makes you? Weak! Worthless! A pack of spineless idiots who can’t take a hit without crying into your overpriced craft beers!
I’ve been watching you—all of you—losing your minds like the sky’s collapsing, like your whole life’s over because some Wall Street graph took a nosedive! Newsflash, morons: I’ve been out here living while you’re bawling over your brokerage accounts! I’m thriving—THRIVING—while you’re glued to your phones, sweating bullets like a bunch of scared kids! You think I give a shit about your market? You think I’m shaking over your dips and crashes? I laugh at it! I piss on it! I’ve got real problems—REAL LIFE—and you’re out here sobbing over digits on a screen!
You’re all trapped in this bullshit game, this sad little cage, and for what? To flex at the bar with your dumbass buddies? To act like you’re some hotshot trader? I’m free, you fools—FREE—and you’re still shackled to your apps, blubbering over money you don’t even get! You’re the failure here—not me! I’m done pretending I care about your fragile egos or your crashing portfolios! So take your whining, take your panic, and shove it up your ass.
