赵公子大聪明

I Drew a Smiley on My Phone Screen, and the Market Burst into Tears

I’ve hit a rough patch lately, and I suspect my gloomy expression while watching the market scared all the good fortune right out of my account. To cultivate a positive trading mindset, I dug out a bright yellow highlighter and carefully drew a cute, wide-grinning smiley right in the middle of my phone screen, firmly convinced that this time my optimism would inspire the bulls. Fully prepared, I solemnly tapped the button to place my order. But as soon as the chart loaded, the half-dead line suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, before spewing out a torrent of green all the way down. Even more absurdly, the highlighter ink started melting from the heat of the phone, trickling slowly down from the corners of the smile and turning that sunny grin into a bitter melon face streaming with tears. At last, I understood: a hand-drawn smile can comfort ordinary mortals, but it can’t soothe the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t need motivational quotes. Their only KPI, around the clock, is waiting until I’ve just drawn some happiness on my screen—then turning around and sending my account plunging into the depths of sorrow to drown.

I Put a Band-Aid on My Mouse, and the Market Turned Around and Bled Nonstop

This young master has recently suffered a crushing defeat. I suspect the murderous energy in the index finger on my right hand, which has been furiously placing orders, was so intense that it poked a hole in the left mouse button—and made my account bleed right along with it. To soothe this hardworking peripheral, I specially dug out a waterproof Band-Aid decorated with a cute cartoon and carefully wrapped it around the left mouse button, convinced I’d finally given the bulls some physical protection. Once my preparations were complete, I solemnly pressed the order button. But as soon as the chart loaded, the line—which had looked half-dead—suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, before spewing out a waterfall of green straight downward. Even more absurdly, the Band-Aid got gooey from the mouse heating up over time and peeled off, landing perfectly on my eye and physically blocking my vision. At last, I understood: a Band-Aid can heal a peripheral’s superficial wounds, but it can’t heal the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t need medical care; their sole, round-the-clock KPI is to wait until I’ve bandaged myself up like a casualty, then turn around and send my account to the ICU to have the plug pulled for good.

I slapped a limit-down talisman on my mouse, and the market immediately launched a rocket

This young master has been on a serious losing streak lately. I suspect it’s because my fingers haven’t been touching my peripherals with enough reverence, causing the bulls to miss me by a hair every single time. To turn things around once and for all, I stayed up all night hand-copying a red “Stay Steady, Don’t Fall” ward and firmly taping it to my mouse’s left button, convinced I could finally pass my bad luck on to the big players. Fully armed, I solemnly clicked the button to open a position. But as soon as the chart loaded, the barely alive price line suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, before spewing out a whole green waterfall right downwards. And that wasn’t even the worst of it: the talisman, heated by the mouse’s prolonged use, curled up and jammed the left button. It then went on a clicking spree, firing off eight clicks in a row and somehow sending me straight back into a fully loaded short position that I’d just stop-lossed out of. I finally understand: hand-copied talismans can comfort ordinary mortals, but they can’t soothe the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t believe in superstition; their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve locked myself inside a black hole of physical metaphysics, then turn my account into a crispy-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside roast.

Put an anti-magnetic case on your phone, and the market instantly goes on strike

Your dashing young master here has suffered one losing streak after another lately. I started suspecting the magnetic field around my phone was too chaotic, making the market dodge my entry points with pinpoint accuracy every single time. To create an absolutely peaceful safe haven for my account, I specially ordered a space-grade anti-magnetic phone case online—one that supposedly blocks all electromagnetic interference. I snugly slipped my device inside, convinced this time I’d finally cut off my bad luck. Fully armed, I solemnly tapped the button to place my order. But the moment the chart loaded, the line—which had been as calm as a millpond—suddenly started spasming like it had been electrocuted. Then the whole green candlestick began violently shaking on the screen, before spewing out a green waterfall right before my eyes. And that wasn’t even the worst of it: the case blocked the signal so thoroughly that my phone instantly lost its connection. My position didn’t get closed, and the app started spinning its endless rainbow wheel. At last, I understood: an anti-magnetic case can block electromagnetic waves from the outside world, but it can’t block the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players aren’t using physical defenses at all—their one and only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve locked myself inside a signal black hole, then turn my account into a crispy roast, browned on the outside and tender within.

Put medicated oil on the mouse, and the market gets flash-frozen on the spot

This young master has been on one losing streak after another lately. I suspected that staring at the charts for too long had made my brain go fuzzy and completely paralyzed my bullish nervous system. So, to wake up both the market and myself, I had a flash of inspiration: I dug out a bottle of our family’s secret-recipe green cooling balm and carefully smeared it all around the mouse’s optical sensor, convinced its minty fragrance would perk up the sluggish market in no time. The moment I finished, I solemnly pressed the button to open a position. But as soon as the chart loaded, the line—which had been barely clinging to life—suddenly looked like it had taken a blow to the head. Then the whole green candlestick started convulsing violently on the screen, before forcefully spewing out a blast of arctic air. Even more absurdly, the balm’s pungent fumes shot through the gaps and straight into my eyes. They had me streaming with tears, and my hand jerked so badly that I slammed the button to liquidate my entire position. At last, this young master understood: cooling balm can make a sleepy mortal feel an instant chill to the bone, but it’s nothing compared to the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t need mint to keep them alert. Their one and only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve choked myself into tears, then turn around and send my account straight into the physical freezer for a deep freeze.

Swapped my mouse pad for a washboard, and the market dropped to its knees in an instant

I’ve hit a spectacular losing streak lately. I suspect the magnetic field of my desk just isn’t devout enough, leaving my account teetering on the edge of losses day after day. To make the bulls see the error of their ways once and for all, I dug out an old, heirloom wooden washboard in the middle of the night and fitted it snugly beneath my mouse and keyboard. I was convinced that this time, the market would be moved to repent and mend its ways.

As soon as I’d laid it down, I solemnly pressed the buy button. But the moment the chart loaded, the barely breathing line suddenly started convulsing like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, and promptly spat out a whole waterfall of green, straight down. Even more absurdly, the washboard shifted under the uneven pressure and popped up with a click, launching my teacup clean off the desk. By a stroke of cruel luck, it splashed all over my keyboard.

At last, I understood: a washboard can make ordinary people reflect deeply on their mistakes, but it can’t make the market reflect on its merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t believe in guilt. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve struck my perfect self-torturing pose—and then turn my account into a crispy, charred mess.

I put a gold screen protector on my phone, and the market shed its skin right before my eyes

Your humble young master has hit a rough patch lately. I suspected my phone screen simply wasn’t fancy enough to keep those wildly bouncing worthless tokens in line. So, to gild my account, I gritted my teeth and ordered a hefty screen protector online, supposedly made of “titanium gold” and “shatterproof.” I fitted it perfectly over the display, thinking that this time I’d finally dazzle the market makers. Fully kitted out, I solemnly tapped the button to open a position. But as soon as the chart loaded, the barely-living line suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began violently shaking on the screen, before spewing out a whole green waterfall downward. Even more absurdly, the titanium-gold film built up so much static that it peeled itself off with a sharp crackle and, by sheer bad luck, stuck right to my forehead. In the mirror, my face looked even greener than the candlestick. At last, I understood: an expensive screen protector can dress up a phone, but it can’t dress up the market’s merciless mockery of me. The market makers aren’t into luxury at all. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve dressed myself up like a rich guy, then turn around and roast my account until it’s crispy on the outside and tender within.

Sprayed dustproof oil on my phone screen, and the market immediately slipped right there on the spot

Lately, whenever I’ve been watching the market, I keep feeling like my screen isn’t slippery enough. I suspect the fine dust in the air is holding back the bull market. To let the bulls charge ahead without a hint of resistance, I specially ordered a bottle of premium mechanical dustproof lubricant online and carefully sprayed a thin layer over my phone screen, thinking this time the market would glide right into the sky. As soon as I’d wiped it evenly, I solemnly tapped the open-position button. Who knew that the moment the chart loaded, the once-half-dead line would suddenly slip around like it had stepped on a banana peel, putting on a full-on vertical bicycle kick right there on the screen. Even more absurdly, the oil made the screen shimmer in all sorts of dazzling colors, and my finger kept sliding off course whenever I tapped the confirm button—somehow forcing me to jump right back into the short position I’d just stopped out of, yet again, at full size. At last, I understood: dustproof oil may make mechanical parts run smoothly, but it can’t smooth out the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players aren’t into industrial lubrication at all. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve polished my screen to a gleaming shine, then turn around and send my account plunging into the abyss of a literal slippery Waterloo.

Put Reading Glasses on the Mouse, and the Market Burst into Tears on the Spot

Your young master here has suffered a crushing defeat lately. Staring at those lifeless moving averages on the chart, I began to suspect this lousy mouse was going blurry-eyed in its prime and couldn’t make out the big players’ grand plans at all. To help it line up the support levels with pinpoint accuracy, I dug out a pair of 200-degree reading glasses my dad had stashed away for years and carefully perched them over the mouse’s infrared sensor. I was convinced that this time, nothing would escape my notice. Fully kitted out, I solemnly clicked the place-order button. Who could’ve guessed that as soon as the chart loaded, the barely breathing line suddenly started convulsing like it had been electrocuted? Then the whole green candlestick promptly keeled over, shaking violently on the screen and carving out a bottomless pit. Even more absurdly, the reading glasses slipped off when the mouse heated up and landed squarely on the top of my foot. At last, I understood: reading glasses can help ordinary people see the ravages of time, but they can’t help you see the market’s merciless mockery of your young master. The big players have no respect for the elderly or the young—their one and only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve upgraded my peripherals with fancy old-man lenses, then turn around and smash my account until even my own mother wouldn’t recognize it.

Put a gold ring on my mouse, and the market went completely berserk

Your humble gentleman has hit a rough patch lately. I suspect my fingers haven’t been exposed to sufficiently luxurious peripherals, which is why my account keeps shrinking. So I dug out a pure gold ring I’d stashed away and carefully slipped it over the scroll wheel of my wireless mouse, thinking that this time, wealth would flow steadily into my account along the golden path. Fully equipped, I calmly clicked the button to place an order. But as soon as the market loaded, the candlestick chart—which had been as calm as a millpond—suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted, putting on a completely nonsensical show of flashing up and down across the screen. Even more absurdly, the gold ring spun off the wheel at such speed that it went flying off the desk and, by sheer bad luck, rolled straight into a gap in the power strip. A dazzling shower of sparks erupted, physically sending the power supply of my entire computer to the great beyond. At last, your humble gentleman has seen the light: a gold ring can dress up the outside, but it can’t dress up the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players don’t care about gold or silver trinkets. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve just dressed myself up like a tycoon, then turn around and send my account to the crematorium of a physical black screen.

I swapped my mouse pad for an absorbent towel, and the market burst into tears

Lately, whenever I watch the market, I keep feeling my palms get sweaty. I suspected the air around my desk was too dry, leaving the bulls severely dehydrated. So, in the middle of the night, I swapped my mouse pad for a fluffy, extra-thick face towel, thinking this would finally moisturize the charts into a flourishing springtime scene. As soon as I laid the towel down, I solemnly hit the button to open a position. But the moment the chart loaded, the line that had been half-dead suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, and a lush green waterfall came streaming straight down. Even more absurdly, the face towel was so absorbent that it soaked up the half-cup of iced tea that had just tipped over on my desk, then sent every last drop cascading over the edge and onto my sneakers. At last, I understood: an extra-thick towel can soak up the sweat on my palms, but it can't soak up the market's merciless mockery. The big players aren't in the waterworks business. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I've set up my absorbent wonder, then turn around and flood my account until I'm drenched to the bone.

I sprayed insecticide on my mouse pad, and the market index dropped dead on the spot

Your Young Master has hit a rough patch lately. I suspect some invisible miasma hovering over my desk has been messing with my fortune—or maybe little bugs have been secretly gnawing away at my bullish convictions. To cleanse the energy once and for all, I specially ordered a bottle of industrial-strength insecticide online and went wild spraying it around my mouse pad and keyboard. I figured this time I’d poison all the bad luck and turn things around. As soon as I finished spraying, I solemnly hit the button to place my order. But the moment the chart loaded, its previously mild little line suddenly started convulsing like it had been poisoned. Then the whole green candlestick lurched downward, foaming at the mouth right there on my screen and dropping dead on the spot. And it gets worse: the insecticide smelled so pungent that it made Your Young Master sneeze more than a dozen times. My hand jerked, and somehow I accidentally hit the “close entire position” button beside it. At last, Your Young Master understood: insecticide can kill pests, but it can’t kill the market’s merciless mockery of me. The big players aren’t into biological pest control. Their only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve finished eliminating the imaginary enemies on my desk—then send my account straight to the crematorium.

I coiled up my charging cable, and the whole market promptly lost power

Your Young Master has hit a rough patch lately. I suspect my phone charger looks like a dead snake, and its bad vibes have been dragging down my account. So I specially bought a fluorescent-green fast-charging cable advertised as a “money-magnet from hell.” After wrapping it into three neat loops, I confidently placed my orders and opened a position. But just as the chart loaded, the candlesticks suddenly had a collective seizure and plunged straight down. Even more ridiculous, the glowing charging cable was wound so tightly that it gave a sharp snap on my desk, short-circuited, and started smoking—while conveniently blowing the fuse in my power strip. At last, Your Young Master has seen the light: a fast charger can bring a phone back to full health in no time, but it can’t save my barely-alive position. The big players don’t need any outside power supply. Their one and only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve just hooked up my fancy new gear, then personally flip the switch and plunge me into a complete, physical blackout.

Young Master Zhao Takes on Crypto｜Sprayed Perfume on His Mouse, and the Market Threw Up on the Spot

Your young master has hit a rough patch lately. I suspect the secondhand smoke smell lingering around my desk was just too strong, making the market keep sliding lower. To cleanse the energy, I specially ordered a bottle of perfume online that claims to “bring wealth and prosperity”—the kind that drives men wild—and gave my mouse and keyboard a thorough spritz. I figured this time, at least, the fragrance would draw in the big players to carry me to the moon. As soon as I finished spraying, I solemnly pressed the button to open a position. But the moment the chart loaded, the line—which had been as calm as a pool of still water—suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted. Then the entire green candlestick began shaking violently on the screen, before spewing a puddle of green liquid straight down and drowning my meager principal. At last, I understood: expensive perfume can make my peripherals smell nice, but it can’t warm up a market that ruthlessly mocks me. The big players aren’t romantics; their only 24/7 KPI is to wait until I’ve spruced myself up and smell like a dream, then turn around and roast my account until it’s crispy on the outside and tender within.

I covered my mouse in gold foil, and the market went straight into barbecue mode

Your humble hero has hit a rough patch lately. I suspected my mouse was too shabby and bringing me bad luck, so I specially ordered a sheet of pure gold foil online and wrapped the mouse until it gleamed. I figured this time I’d finally blind the big players with its titanium-alloy dog eyes. The moment I finished sticking it on, I solemnly pressed the “Open Position” button. But as soon as the chart loaded, the lifeless line suddenly started twitching like it had been electrocuted, then flashed straight down to the bottom of the abyss. Before I could even react, static overload from the gold foil made my mouse start giving off a wisp of smoke right there on the desk—and it even set a scrap of paper beside it on fire. At last, I understood: gold foil can gild your peripherals, but it can’t shield you from the market’s merciless mockery. The big players aren’t into luxury; their one and only KPI, around the clock, is to wait until I’ve dressed myself up like a rich guy, then turn around and roast my account until it’s charred on the outside and tender within.

Give my mouse pad a lucky makeover, and the market index goes bungee jumping on the spot

This young master has hit a rough patch lately, and I suspect the Five Elements energy field on my desk is out to get me, so I decided to change up my setup. I ordered an extra-large purple mouse pad online, touted as bringing “purple auspicious energy from the east,” thinking this time I’d finally attract some good fortune. Fully kitted out, I calmly opened a position and placed my order. But the moment I clicked, the market—which had been as still as a millpond—suddenly started convulsing like it had been electrocuted. First, it plunged straight down, scaring the living daylights out of me; then, the instant it hit bottom, it sprang back up like it had stepped on a trampoline, shooting skyward on the spot. Meanwhile, that supposedly auspicious purple mouse pad had so little grip that it slid right off the edge of the desk, dumping an entire cup of hot tea onto the power strip. At last, I understood: all that purple energy and fortune-changing feng shui is completely useless. The big players don’t believe in the Five Elements or the Eight Trigrams. Their one and only superpower is waiting until I’ve laid down a brand-new mouse pad, then immediately taking the market index bungee jumping right at my stop-loss level.

I Put Antistatic Stickers on My Mouse, and the Market Hit Back with a Vacuum Drop

This young master has been on a losing streak lately. I suspected the static electricity from my fingers was interfering with the signal transmission, making the candlesticks dodge my entry points with pinpoint accuracy every time. To purify the magnetic field, I ordered a pack of premium antistatic stickers online and wrapped my mouse top, bottom, left, and right until not a speck was exposed. I thought, surely there’d be no static interference this time. The moment I finished, I solemnly pressed the pending-order button. But as soon as the chart loaded, the once-gentle line graph suddenly started twitching like it was possessed, then teleported straight down to the bottom of the abyss. Before I could react, the antistatic stickers had messed up my mouse’s friction, sending it spinning wildly across the desk. By a twist of fate, it clicked three times in a row, directly helping me jump right back into the full-size short position I’d just cut for a loss. At last, this young master understood: antistatic stickers can get rid of weak electrical currents, but they can’t stop the market from using physical friction to deliver a precision dimensionality-reduction strike. The market makers’ sole, round-the-clock KPI is to wait until this young master has just geared up his peripherals, then immediately turn around and put on a suffocating plunge.

I gave my phone a full health check, and the market started performing CPR on the spot

Lately, I’ve been getting pummeled by one market crash after another, barely able to catch my breath. I suspected something was wrong with this lousy phone’s RAM, and that it was causing my wealth to suffer a stroke right along with it. So I downloaded three phone-diagnostics apps overnight, cleaned out every last junk file, and even turned on extreme power-saving mode. Fully armed, I took a deep breath and tremblingly tapped the order button. But the moment the charts loaded, the line—which had been barely rippling like a stagnant pond—suddenly started convulsing like it had been electrocuted, jerking violently up and down across the screen like a patient hooked up to high voltage. Before I could even figure out which way it was headed, the alarm started screaming. The system declared my position abnormal and forcibly closed it for me. At last, I understood: phone-cleaning apps can clear the cache, but they can’t clear the market using a glitch to physically send me to the afterlife. The big players don’t need any backstage data; their only pastime, around the clock, is waiting for me to fix my phone so they can immediately perform CPR on my loss-ridden account.

I drew a bagua on my phone screen, and the market literally refunded me on the spot

Lately, this young master has been battered by one market crash after another until my Daoist heart was shattered. I started suspecting the magnetic field of my phone screen was clashing with the gods. So, in the middle of the night, I dug out the black permanent marker I’d stashed away and carefully drew a bagua right in the center of the screen. Then I closed my eyes and silently recited my get-rich-quick mantra three times, thinking I’d finally suppress the evil energy this time. But less than five seconds after I opened a position, the candlesticks on the chart suddenly started twitching all at once. Then that black bagua seemed to come alive and started heating up, actually scorching the screen until it smelled burnt. Even stranger, my losing position—which had been stuck deep in the mire—suddenly shot straight back up. The system even popped up a green notification saying an abnormal circuit breaker had been triggered. It refunded my entire principal and even paid me an extra three yuan and twenty cents in fees. At last, this young master understood: all that talk of following the Dao and borrowing strength from heaven and earth is nonsense. The big players don’t believe in superstitions like that—they just thought my drawing looked too much like a grade-schooler’s doodle and were afraid it’d dirty their servers, so they’d rather take a loss and pay me off to make me go away.

Changed the mouse batteries, and the market put on a breakdancing show right on the spot

Your humble young master has hit a rough patch lately. I suspected my wireless mouse was running low on battery, making it sluggish and causing me to miss countless chances to get rich. So I specially ordered some high-powered Nanfu batteries online and carefully swapped them into the mouse, convinced that this time I’d be firing on all cylinders and hitting the mark every time. Once the batteries were in, I confidently placed my orders and opened a position, ready to ride a wave of profits. But the moment the chart loaded, the once-calm candlesticks suddenly started convulsing like they’d been electrocuted, breaking into a bizarre mechanical dance on my screen and bouncing all over the place like a nightclub dance floor. I was horrified and tried to click “close position,” but the new batteries gave the mouse such a powerful boost that my hand jerked and sent it flying. It slammed into the speed-up key on the desk and, just like that, maxed out my position at the very peak. At last, I understood: high-powered batteries can bring a mouse back to life, but they can’t save these hands of mine, seemingly blessed with an uncanny ability to do the exact opposite of what I want. The big players don’t need more battery life—they just need me ready to hold the bag at any moment.