I’m 57 And Feel Too Young To Avoid Investing In Bitcoins
My midlife crisis is behind me; I don’t give a shit about ethics anymore
Bitcoins make me feel young.
Cryptocurrency investing is an exciting new land — planet, even — of opportunities. This article, written by a whiny twenty-six-year-old, confirmed my views. To get into crypto, you need to have balls.
Fuck it. I’m going to say it.
Crypto makes me hard. Instead of Viagra, I’m buying bitcoins now.
I want to be a gangsta
Kidding, I don’t want to be a gangsta, not one that gets caught in any case. But gangstas use bitcoins. Big gangstas. Real ones with big balls.
They use it for “financing terrorists, buying and selling drugs and weapons on the dark web, scams, ransomware, child abuse materials, and domestic extremism.”
If that doesn’t excite you, what will? Don’t you want to be part of that club?
I know I do.
But not in a terrorist attack financing way. Nor in a drug or weapon dealing way. Also, no scams, ransomware, child abuse materials. And no domestic extremism. No thanks. These are really bad things, folks.
And I want things to stay neat and tidy for when I’m rich from my bitcoins investments.
I want to ruin the planet — because — why not?
When someone as ecologically conscious — not — as the CEO of an electric car producing company tells you bitcoin’s energy consumption is too insane for the good of the planet, that says something.
I want to be part of that.
Actually, I want to be part of both.
I have shares in this marvelous company that’s “among the 15% of the world’s largest companies, across 14 indices, that do not disclose their overall greenhouse-gas emissions.”
And I’ll buy more shares of this wondrous company that’s continuing the general trend of building “larger, heavier, and more powerful cars.” With the same technology, this company could build smaller, lighter, and less powerful cars that would be much more energy-efficient.
But they don’t. And I wouldn’t buy any. I want my big(ger) car.
And my dirty bitcoins.
Yes, please.
I don’t want to restrain myself anymore
Before my midlife crisis, I was no Mother Teresa, but I wasn’t unethical either. I was just a regular guy, you know? Staying on the sidelines.
But then my wife got herself a wealthy divorce, thanks to her even wealthier lawyer, and went to live with her one-percenter boyfriend. And with the kids (two). And the dog.
Then I lost my job.
I got fired because “we’re restructuring, it’s not about you. We would keep you if we could, but we need to honor our promises to the shareholders. I’m sure you understand.”
Not really, no, I couldn’t understand. Fuckers.
I blew up.
I was in a dark place for a few years (twelve). I’m not afraid to write it. Not anymore. I also got sick of seeing everyone getting hilariously rich. Why should I take the high ground and stay away from this electronic gold that’s begging to be picked up?
You tell me. I’ll read your comments from my beachfront bungalow while sipping my cocktails.
Final thought — sort of
I really like the laser eye in my profile picture. It makes me look so cool.
Cheers, folks.
And, remember, #HODL!
If you read this far, you must be interested in another viewpoint, or you jumped to conclusions, as people often do. In any case, here you go:
