A friend persuaded me to post some of my past humorous attempts at discussing my personal Forex trading experiences. Please be assured that the following had nothing to do with my move from New Hampshire to Dallas and is in no way related to the new slope on my forehead. LOL
Confessions of a Neanderthal Trader
I wasn’t always like this. I used to be intelligent, suave, persuasive. I knew which snifter to use for which brandy and could charm a dog off a meat wagon. Women gave me a second look. Men marveled. Then I discovered Forex. That’s when Madge left me and life has never been the same.
It started with my grooming. I used to be a clothes horse. I shopped at the finest stores. I spit shine my shoes until they blinded passersby. Never was a hair out of place. A lint brush was as indispensable as a Colt .45 to a high school guidance counselor.
But after just one week of Forex currency trading I found myself wearing the same sweats all day. And then the next. And sometimes the day after that. Then I stopped wearing shoes altogether and traded in my socks. Then I was down to my undershirt. Gosh, it’s warm in here. Must be the anxiety. Now I was down to my shorts. Man, I need some fresh air.
And what happened to my intellect? It seemed to be shrinking. I could swear I noticed a distinct new slope to my forehead. Slowly, my vocabulary shrank. I no longer used words like ’sesquipedalian’ and ‘logophile.’ I heard President Bush explaining America’s policy in Iraq and found I could actually understand him when he said ‘nukular’ and ‘Americuh.’
And my personality… Where once I was a great humanitarian, now all I cared about was ripping out the other trader’s guts and handing them back to him on a stick. All I wanted was the pips. Nothing else mattered.
I could picture myself back 40,000 years ago, huddled inside a cave on the edge of a great snow covered mountain, a small fire crackling next to me as I hefted a yak’s thigh bone in each hand. A band of homo sapiens was hunting on the precipice below and I was about to provide them with a little one-man welcoming party. Welcome to the club. Get it, club?
Hey, pal, snap out of it!
It was true. After weeks of staring at charts I was morphing into a currency caveman. I found my hearing had become so acute I could almost hear the candles moving. I could even smell the fear in the market. Or was that me? But I still couldn’t tear myself away from the screen. Five o’clock shadow turned into a hairy face that would frighten my own mother. But I didn’t care.
I was living on raw beef jerky now, squatting in my ergonomic office chair, making grunting sounds and pointing excitedly as the price lurched up and down on the screen.
My imaginary spear clutched tightly, I was no longer thinking about trading. I was sensing when the market was ready to stampede and would be waiting in the shadows to pounce on the weak pips and the stragglers. Candlesticks that used to confound me were now just a docile, grazing herd of red and blue gazelle. They didn’t have a chance.
I threw all those currency trading courses I bought on the Internet into the fire and used the embers to roast some venison. Pivot points? Bollinger Bands? Who needs that stuff? Price can only go up and down, and the less I thought about it, the better I knew instinctively what to do.
Two million years from now I’d be working the trading desk at Goldman Sachs and stealing money from little old ladies — from their IRA’s anyway — but for now, back here in the Paleolithic, I was the king of my kingdom.
I owned the Forex. And I wasn’t about to evolve.