Tag: money

This Wellness Is Making Me Sick

This is the excellent foppery of the world, now repackaged and sold as salvation in kale smoothies and overpriced yoga mats, a snake-oil gospel for the overextended and underwhelmed. When we are sick in spirit—a surfeit of our own consumption, both material and digital—we make guilty of our ennui the gluten, the GMOs, the “toxins” that lurk in the shadows of our pantry and the cradle of our guts. As if we were villains by the necessity of processed snacks, fools by the gravitational pull of high-fructose corn syrup, and knaves by the spectral dominance of blue light.

An admirable evasion, indeed, of bio-hacked man to lay his goatish failures at the feet of Big Pharma or Mercury in retrograde, or the supposed betrayal of ancient grains. My parents conceived me in a haze of cheap gin and TV static, under no auspicious constellation save the one that declared them bored and fertile. And yet, by the alchemy of this wellness racket, we are taught to believe that I, rough and restless and human as hell, can be redeemed by the righteous consumption of adaptogenic mushrooms and $80 jars of ashwagandha.

Fut! I should have been that I am had the maidenliest kombucha in the firmament fizzled in my bloodstream. Strip the veneer, and it’s all the same greasy hustle: a diet pill by another name, selling us the fantasy that we can blame the stars—or our hormones, or the pesticides—for our own goatish disposition, for the tangled wreckage of choices made not by destiny, but by us. But the Dragon’s Tail is still a tail, my friends, and the only thing it’s wagging is you.

How many more devils are we going to invent before we talk about money?

How many more abundance doctrines are we going to conjure before we choke on their shine?

How many more sanctified smoothies, meditation apps, and $200 leggings

before we dare to say the word class out loud?

Just how many toxins must we purge, how many chakra charts must we hang,

how many breathwork retreats must we endure

before we admit the poison was never in the air, but in the system itself?

How many more manifestos of self-love can we download

before we ask who profits from our endless search for perfection?

How many cleanses does it take to scrub clean

the fingerprints of capital from the wellness machine?

How many crystals can we clutch, oils can we diffuse,

before we admit that no amount of “high vibrations”

can drown out the grinding roar of the gears?

Oh, the wellness economy—how slick, how seductive, how endlessly forgiving—

preaching self-care while selling us the burden of our own undoing.

Every supplement, every subscription, every self-optimization hack

is another distraction from the simple, terrifying truth:

it’s not your gut, it’s the game.

All this wellness is making you sick.

All this chasing balance has you tripping over the scales.

Every juice cleanse is a hunger strike you paid $300 for,

and every guru’s smile hides the fine print of a pyramid scheme.

They tell you to align your chakras,

but the realignment they’re after is in your wallet.

They tell you to detox your body,

but what they’re selling is the poison of self-doubt repackaged,

the whispered lie that you are broken and only they can fix you—

at a premium, of course.

All this wellness is making you sick,

and it’s no accident, no cosmic alignment of unfortunate stars.

It’s by design—a treadmill of “progress” that only speeds up,

a bottomless pit of products promising wholeness

but delivering emptiness, neatly wrapped in pastel branding.

You can’t yoga your way out of a rigged system.

You can’t meditate capitalism into kindness.

You can’t gratitude-journal your rent into being paid.

But they’ll sell you the dream that you can,

because a desperate customer is a loyal customer.

All this wellness is making you sick,

because the cure was never meant to be yours.

Money Should Be Free

Imagine a world where money flows like words through the airwaves, a filthy river of greenbacks coursing through every gutter and alley, seeping into the cracks of society, soaking the earth, drowning the parasites and the predators alike. A glorious torrent, unfettered by the iron bars of bank vaults, slipping past the sticky fingers of Wall Street sharks, flooding every slum and penthouse until no one can hoard, no one can starve, no one can die for the lack of it.

This is the vision, the fever dream of a society where cash isn’t chained to the whims of the suits, isn’t corralled behind the velvet ropes of high finance, but is free—wild and unruly—as free as the foul-mouthed graffiti scrawled on the underpass, as free as the bile spewed by the demagogues and the dissenters on late-night radio. Money, unbound, loose in the streets like a pack of feral dogs, gnawing at the edges of the old order, tearing down the ivory towers with every snarling bite.

Money should be free like speech, like the words we spit and the lies we tell, the truths we barely dare to whisper. No more should it be the domain of the privileged, locked away in Swiss accounts and Cayman havens, but instead a tool, a weapon, a voice for every bastard son and daughter of the American Dream, every poor sucker born on the wrong side of the tracks, every down-and-out loser with a fistful of dreams and a pocket full of nothing.

But they fear it. They fear what happens when the floodgates open, when the dollar isn’t shackled to a price tag, when every man, woman, and child holds the same power in their hands as the boardroom elite. Because money, like speech, is dangerous when it’s in the hands of the many. It breeds chaos, it sows dissent, it upends the delicate balance of power that keeps the machine churning and the masses in line.

So they keep it locked up, parceled out in tiny doses, just enough to keep the gears turning, just enough to keep us hungry, desperate, begging for scraps. They know that if money were free—truly free—like speech, like thought, like the anarchic energy that pulses in the veins of every street corner prophet and half-crazed preacher, the whole rotten system would come crashing down, the pyramid of power collapsing under its own bloated weight.

Free money, free speech—two sides of the same damned coin, the currency of revolution, the language of the oppressed. And until they’re both free, really free, we’re all just slaves to the same old gods, dancing to the same old tune, while the fat cats sit back and laugh at the spectacle of it all.

Let’s cut through the bullshit. The objections to making money free like speech are nothing more than self-serving garbage, concocted by those with a vested interest in keeping the rest of us under their heel. They wave around words like “inflation” and “economic instability” like they’re some kind of holy scripture, but it’s all a smokescreen—a sleazy con game designed to keep the power where it’s always been: in the hands of the rich and the ruthless.

The fear of hyperinflation is the first line of defense for these bastards. They’ll tell you that if everyone had access to money, the economy would spiral out of control, that prices would skyrocket, and the whole system would collapse. But let’s be real—this assumes that the only economic model worth a damn is the one that keeps their coffers full. What they won’t tell you is that the current system is already on life support, propped up by the same handful of bankers and politicians who have rigged the game in their favor. So who are they really protecting? Not you, not me—just their own bloated wallets.

Then there’s the tired old line about “loss of incentive and productivity.” The idea that without the threat of poverty hanging over your head, you’d just sit on your ass all day is a goddamn lie. They want you to believe that money is the only thing that drives people to work, but they’re deliberately ignoring the real motivations—passion, creativity, the desire to build something meaningful. Free money wouldn’t kill productivity; it would set it free, unshackling us from soul-sucking jobs and letting us chase our real dreams. But of course, the last thing these parasites want is a population that’s not chained to the grind.

And then they start whining about “widening inequality,” as if that’s not the most hypocritical pile of horseshit you’ve ever heard. The same people who’ve been exploiting every loophole to hoard wealth are suddenly worried that free money would somehow screw over the little guy? Give me a break. The truth is, they’re terrified that if money were free, their precious system would implode, and with it, their stranglehold on power. Free money wouldn’t widen inequality—it would level the playing field, giving everyone a fair shot at the game.

Oh, but the poor banks! The poor investment firms! “Undermining financial institutions,” they call it, as if that’s something to be concerned about. Let’s get one thing straight: these institutions exist to serve themselves, not the people. They’ve been sucking the lifeblood out of the economy for decades, and now they want you to believe that without them, society would crumble. What a load of crap. The truth is, they’re scared shitless of losing their relevance, of waking up in a world where they can’t dictate the terms anymore.

“Moral hazard,” they cry, as if letting people have money would turn us all into reckless idiots. What they really mean is that they don’t trust you to make your own decisions—they’d rather keep you on a short leash, afraid and obedient. But the real hazard is letting these assholes keep calling the shots, because they’ve already proven they can’t be trusted. Free money would strip away their control, and that scares the hell out of them.

They love to talk about “corruption and misuse of resources,” as if the current system isn’t already a cesspool of corruption. The difference is, under their system, only the rich get to be corrupt. Free money would democratize power, and that’s the last thing they want. They’re not worried about corruption; they’re worried about losing their monopoly on it.

Then there’s the bullshit about the “devaluation of labor and skill.” They’ve got you convinced that the only way to value work is with a paycheck, but that’s just another way to keep you in line. There’s plenty of work that’s vital to society—caregiving, teaching, creating—that’s already undervalued because it doesn’t rake in profits for the elite. Free money would let people pursue the work that matters, instead of just what pays. But they can’t stand the thought of a world where they can’t exploit your labor for their gain.

Finally, they’ll throw out the “erosion of social contracts” argument, as if the current social contract isn’t already broken beyond repair. The reality is, the contract they’re so keen to protect is one that keeps them at the top and everyone else fighting over scraps. Free money would mean rewriting that contract, making it fair, making it just. And that, my friends, is what they’re really afraid of—losing their grip on the power they’ve so carefully rigged in their favor.

So don’t buy the bullshit. The cons against free money are just the desperate last gasps of a dying system, clinging to whatever scraps of control it can still grab. They’re scared, and they should be. Because when money is free, so are we.

Rules of the Game

There’s a sickness in the air. It smells like Axe body spray, fear, and poorly structured hedge funds. The streets of Wall Street are crawling with a new breed of mark: the finance bro. You know the type—high-and-tight haircut, teeth like polished marble, and a face that screams, Dad says I’m a winner. These goons are the last gasping breath of a culture that once knew how to play the long con.

Because let’s be honest—finance is the longest-running con game in American history. The goal isn’t to make money; it’s to convince people you know what to do with theirs. And once upon a time, the old money bastards of Goldman Sachs had the recipe: button-down collars, frayed at the edges, signaling generational wealth so deep it might as well have been carved into the granite of Bar Harbor. These guys didn’t sell stability—they were stability. Or at least, they played the part so well that nobody questioned it.

But today? The recipe’s gone. Dead. Burned at the altar of Instagram clout and “Disruptor Energy.” The new rich don’t know a long game from a TikTok trend. Their shirts are ironed within an inch of their lives, their watches scream I’m one bonus away from debt, and they roll up to meetings in Teslas that smell like synthetic leather and desperation.

THE RULES OF THE GAME

You want to con the new rich? It’s easy—because they want to be conned. They’re just begging for it, sitting in glass-walled offices, hoping someone will come along and whisper, You belong. Here’s how you do it:

1. THE BUTTON-DOWN COLLAR IS A WEAPON

The old Goldman geezers knew this. The button-down isn’t just a shirt—it’s a statement: I am not like you. A frayed collar says you summer in Nantucket, your great-grandfather was an admiral, and your family’s trust fund could buy and sell the entire population of Silicon Valley. But here’s the trick: you don’t say any of that. You let the shirt do the talking. If it looks too clean, too new, you might as well tattoo NEW MONEY on your forehead.

2. DRESS LIKE YOU DON’T CARE

This is crucial. The real players don’t wear tailored suits—they wear suits that look tailored by accident. Your shoes should be old enough to have a story but polished enough to keep the peasants guessing. Think shabby, but in a way that costs more than the average finance bro’s monthly rent.

3. NEVER OUTSHINE THE MARK

The old Goldman sharks understood this. The client—some juiced-up tech guy with a soft spot for crypto—doesn’t want to feel like you’re richer than him, even if you are. Your job is to make him think he’s the one with vision, while you quietly pocket the fees. Compliment his Rolex, but act like you don’t recognize the brand. This will drive him insane.

4. SPEAK IN CODE

Don’t say returns; say stability. Don’t say investment; say legacy. Use words like provenance and endowment. These are terms that make the new rich feel like they’ve wandered into an exclusive club where everyone speaks a dead language. They’ll pay anything to stay.

5. LOOK BORED

The rich are allergic to enthusiasm. Nothing terrifies them more than someone who seems like they need the job. Your demeanor should suggest that managing their money is a mildly annoying favor you’re doing because your father once played squash with their uncle.

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE CON

Rich people—especially the new rich—are deeply insecure. They don’t want your money advice; they want your approval. The old-money types had this figured out decades ago. They understood that wealth is as much about optics as it is about numbers. A frayed collar, a half-smile, a well-placed anecdote about the family summer house in Maine—that’s all it took.

But the finance bros? They’ve traded all that for LinkedIn posts about “grind culture” and suits that look like rejected Fast & Furious costumes. These guys don’t just lose money—they lose the plot. And they’re sitting ducks for anyone who knows how to play the game.

So pour yourself a stiff drink, dust off an old Brooks Brothers button-down, and start practicing your dead-eyed stare. The rich are still as gullible as ever—they’ve just forgotten the rules. Time to remind them.

Now listen, you probably don’t want anything to do with this racket—because you’re probably not rich, or even knew rich. That’s fine. Good for you. Rich people are their own punishment. They’re like megafauna, lumbering across the earth, oblivious to the world they crush beneath their gold-plated hooves. You can admire their size, sure—but keep your distance. They’re dangerous, and they have no idea you exist.

Still, it’s good to know this stuff. File it under Interesting Things About stuff. Because while you might not want to cozy up to a rhinoceros, it’s useful to know how to dodge one—or, if you’re feeling bold, how to sabotage it.

But if you’re smart, you’ll stay clear of the megafauna altogether. Watch them from the safety of the tree line, take notes, and maybe—just maybe—save a few sticks of dynamite for later.

Because in the world that is coming things are going to get real weird, real soon. The megafauna are already teetering on the brink, crashing into transcendence like a once-proud dinosaur unable to handle the weight of its own hubris. And when the dust settles, it’ll be the small, scrappy creatures—the ones who know how to hide in the cracks, nibble around the edges, and adapt on the fly—that will carry on. The world belongs to the rats, the cockroaches, the survivors.

Just make sure to stay out of the way when their transcendence does not materialize, and they realize that they’re stuck in this planet full of rats like you.

Exactly. When their transcendence doesn’t materialize, when they realize they’re stuck on this cracked, decaying planet with nothing but the rats left—that’s when the real show begins. The megafauna will wake up to the fact that they’ve hitched their wagon to a broken system, and no amount of golden handshakes or tech bro dreams will pull them out of the hole they’ve dug for themselves.

And you, the rat, will be in the corner, sipping a drink, watching the chaos unfold. You’ll be the one who knows how to thrive in the wreckage, adapting and slipping through cracks they never even saw coming. The rats will rule because they know how to survive when the world as they knew it collapses.

So yeah, stay out of their way. Let them stew in their own collapse as they try to cling to the illusion of transcendence, while you keep your head down and do what you do best: survive. Because, in the end, when the megafauna fall, the rats are the ones who rebuild.

The Gap Between the Sign and the Value

Let’s call it what it is—the gap. The distance between the sign and the value, between what’s real and what they tell you is real. You hold a dollar in your hand, crisp, clean, stamped with symbols and numbers. They say it has power. But the power isn’t in the dollar—it’s in the belief, the collective hallucination that this piece of paper, this sign, has value. And the farther we go, the bigger the gap becomes. More signs, less value. More noise, less meaning.

Finance is a hall of mirrors, reflecting back at you endless possibilities, none of them quite real. You think you’re making choices—invest here, buy there—but what you’re really doing is feeding the machine. You’re part of the spectacle, caught in the loop of generating signs—money, contracts, assets—that only exist to sustain themselves. It’s counterfeiting in the purest form, a conjuring trick that turns air into wealth and wealth into power. But where’s the value? Where’s the substance beneath the sign?

On the reactionary side they tell you Money used to be a stand-in for something real—gold, labor, land. Now it’s a stand-in for itself, a self-replicating loop of signs that point to nothing. And yet they do not seem to have a problem with the shapes it creates at the top. It shapes everything. It decides who eats and who starves, who drives a red Ferrari and who’s left with the scraps. Every dollar is a vote, they say, but it’s more than that—it’s the architecture of our reality. The economy bends to those who hold the most signs, and the rest of us? We’re left living in the gaps, in the spaces between the choices we never really had.

The Gap Between the Sign and the Value

Counterfeiting is the art of illusion. You’ve got the sign, all right—the dollar, the asset, the stock. You can print them by the truckload, flood the world with the symbol of wealth. But the value? It doesn’t materialize just because you’ve duplicated the sign. This is the gap, the rupture between the sign and what it’s supposed to represent. It’s not just about printing fake bills; the counterfeit runs deeper.

Look at financial services—aren’t they doing the same thing? They churn out new forms of money, securities, derivatives. They’re stacking signs upon signs, layers of abstraction that multiply like rabbits. But for all that multiplication, what’s being created? More signs, more indicators of wealth. Yet underneath it, there’s a hollow core—a failure to produce real value. This is counterfeiting in a suit and tie, wrapped in the language of economics.

Every time you trade a stock or bundle a loan, it’s another step removed from the ground. The asset becomes a symbol, then the symbol gets traded and turned into another symbol, and on it goes. Financial services turn the crank, generating signs of wealth without ever generating the wealth itself. It’s all valid, all legal, but it’s counterfeit in spirit. It’s the creation of something from nothing, without the labor or material that used to back those signs up.

And money—money isn’t just a tool of exchange. It’s a vote. Every dollar says what the economy will produce, where the resources will flow. You want red Ferraris? Then that’s what the economy will give you if you’ve got the signs to back it up. You want corn? Too bad if the guy with all the dollars wants something else. It’s not just currency; it’s a weaponized form of choice. The people holding the most signs get to dictate the landscape, what’s produced and what’s left to rot.

The real trick of the counterfeit economy is making us believe that it’s all real. That more signs mean more wealth, more value, more choice. But when the signs multiply and the value doesn’t? That’s when the gap widens, and we’re left chasing shadows, living in a world built on counterfeit choices.