Trading has no meaning. Ask yourself, who benefits from you as a private trader? Why do you trade? Don’t spin me the tale of being the liquidity of the markets. No we’re not.
Whey’re not allowing Maria, the 90 year old Mexican lady to exchange her Peso’s for Euro so she can visit her nephew who has one leg and and a large nose? We are not that noble.
I trade for money, then I trade for lifestyle, then I trade for the hot underwear throwing woman. Perhaps I have myself mixed up with a rock star. Either way there is a moral dilemma.
Trading is gambling right?
“They” say trading is either gambling, a game or rather pointless. There are persuasive arguments for all three. We offer little to society while at our desks. We guess on the direction of trades based on inaccurate information. We offer nothing but some awesome parties.
We sit at a desk, usually minus underwear, press a button or two, and laugh our best evil laugh as the dollars roll in.
Of course “they” are just jealous. It is easy to criticize from the protective walls of their grey cubicles. Easy to tweet from their long, almost always pointless, morning meetings. Easy to sneer from their perfectly 5am shaven upper lips.
So let me retort.
You are right, I, as a private trader, offer nothing.
My trade size is but a bees pee in a multi-trillion dollar currency pool. I am not helping that 90 year old Mexican woman.
I am just trying to send another small insignificant, no underwear wearing private trader broke. They lose. I win. I eat. They don’t.
Trading is not my definition. I don’t judge myself by my profession. Trading is my Olympics. It is my impossible achievement.
So why should I care?
I couldn’t give a rats arse. I don’t care because trading is not my definition. I don’t judge myself by my profession. Trading is my Olympics. It is my impossible achievement.
To “make it” is one hell of a thing considering the failure rate of this industry. It is a feather in the cap, but it only serves to tickle my nose, not to make others fly.
I serve no more use as a trader as tits do on a bull.
What I offer is not as a trader, but as the person trading let’s me be. I rock as a dad.
I spend a minimum of 5 hours a day, every day with my two boys. I take them to school, I talk to their teachers, I watch their assembly performances and listen to every squeaky note of their recorder practice.
I know the mums think I am unemployed, if only they knew. My boys not only love me, they know me.
I suck at housework, but I try because I am here. My wife likes that.
I can eat large lunches and small dinners, my intestines likes that. I poo like a trooper because of it.
I can take a nap at 11am, 2pm or whenever I damn well need it. I watched the entire Brazilian World Cup, 3rd vs 4th playoff and all.
I’ll get first run on the Easter eggs, Christmas trees and bra sales.
I can help people move, feed the needy, fix people’s crap and coach soccer teams.
I can train for triathlons in sunlight, swim in public pools minus the creepy Asian ladies rubbing my arse as they go past. You get the point.
Trading provides no meaning in itself, but make a go of trading, and it can provide you time.
You want to live life? Start projects? Help the poor? You need time.
Trading buys you time. The corporate jungle tallies it like a charity telethon.
Sure, trading has no meaning in itself, but it buys me the ability to make a bigger contribution to life than a cubicle walled existence.
Trading has no meaning? Ask my boys if they agree.
EDIT 1: This was originally written on Mar 19, 2012. I re-publish it now in 2014 because the message has only been confirmed since then.
EDIT 2: Now in 2017, nothing has changed, except maybe at age 41 actually wanting creepy Asian ladies to rub my arse. Apart from that.