I went out and I bought the fucking dip on REGN

My portfolio was down another thousand dollars today, but I feel fucking amazing. I am more confident than ever in my ability to make money. I may be delusional, but that’s ok. Everything is an illusion anyways, aside from pain and pleasure. Pain and pleasure are real. 

Speaking of which, my losses no longer hurt me. They fascinate me. I don’t like when my trades move sideways, but I like when they go against me so hard I get whiplash. NKTR hit a fresh high of 54.95, and I am curious whether or not it will go to 59. I am now down 6K. I am not covering until I’m either homeless or it falls back down to $30. 

My dad said it appears that I don’t care about losing money, and that this concerns him. I think he may be right. I don’t trade with fear. I trade with a desire to win big. I want to score like ten grand in the course of a couple days. That would be fun. That would be really epic. 

Here’s what I did today: I put a trailing stop loss of either 6% (for trades I believe in) or 2% (for mistakes I just want out of ASAP) on all my existing positions. I need more cash to play with, hence the systematic selling. 

I also bought 30 shares of REGN at $354/share—a $10,620 position. Poor REGN has been down lately I think because of fears surrounding Novartis’ competitor drug, Brolucizumab. I think this worry is about as dumb as scientology. It’ll be like two years before Broluc hits shelves anyways, and even if it does cut Eylea sales in half, REGN has other, blockbuster drugs like Dupixent going for it. Q4 of this year and Q1 of next year are going to be fucking lit as a Christmas tree and REGN is going back to $500. 

Alternately, I could be wrong and REGN could be headed below 300, or worse: it could just trade sideways for some time. In any case, I put a 4% trailing stop for a maximum loss of $450. REGN bounced a little bit this afternoon, so my max loss is now $300. The reason I chose 4% is because a historic level of support seems to be $340, 4% below my entry of $450. 

If REGN falls below $329, it’s probably fucked. It may go to $200, in which case I will sell my children into temporary slavery for capital to buy cheap shares. I will subsequently purchase their freedom back with my massive gains and give them each a Bugatti as reparation. 

I’m also thinking of shorting URBN because their clothes are uglier than Eric Trump. Of course, I will short more NKTR once momentum dies down. If the laws of motion apply to stock prices, than acceleration must decrease and velocity must reach zero before a reversal. Right now, NKTR’s acceleration is still a positive number. 

Don’t get me wrong; obviously the laws of motion don’t apply to stocks usually, but in this case, I think they can because the stock is not trading on fundamentals, but on momentum. 

The market is so beautiful to me—more beautiful than nature. Its parabolic moves take my breath away. 


Nektare you fucking crazy

“Shorting a stock without protection is like fucking random men from Tinder without protection. It is dangerous and you are forbidden from doing it!” My dad told me over the phone. He called me because he was disturbed by my portfolio’s poor performance. He had been putting off logging into my brokerage account for months because he was afraid by what he would find. Last week, when he was transferring me fresh funds, he finally saw the damage. He says giving me money is like trying to fill a bucket with water, except the bucket has a leak in the bottom. I am the leak. All I do is lose.

Not surprisingly, I am banned from trading the new capital. My dad is planning on using it to buy SPY for me over the course of the year. 

Aside from the declining value of my account overall, my dad was most worried about my recent botched NKTR short trade. He said “it’s ok to make mistakes, but when someone makes the same mistakes over and over again, she should not be allowed to trade.” I’ve made the error of averaging down on a losing position ($DRYS) last year, which cost me 18K, and I promised I would never be so reckless again. With NKTR, I averaged up on an exploding short, and am now down a painful 5K.

Here’s what happened: on November 07, I shorted 100 shares of NKTR at $26.95. Over the next week it proceeded to rise 70% to the mid-forties. I remember feeling grateful that I “started small.” On November 16th, I decided to triple down by shorting 300 more shares at $44.50. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Oh wait I do. I was thinking: “NKTR will now fall back to $20. Why? Because I fucking want it do.” I wish I were kidding, but I must have truly felt that I was God. Or else I would have put a stop loss. My 400 shares of NKTR (almost a 20K position) steadily climbed to 49 a few days later. I was a Nektarholic in denial. On Wednesday, November 22, I got my dad’s permission to short 200 more shares at $49.11 with a stop order at $50.11 for a max loss of $200. Consciously or subconsciously, I set the order to expire at the end of the trading day. On Friday morning, much to my premature delight, Nektar was 5% down in pre-market trading on a failed phase III study, but the drop was short-lived. NKTR bounced back from that like a fat kid on a well-made trampoline. I ended up covering my short at $51.19, losing about $400 instead of $200 as I originally intended. NKTR closed on Friday, November 24 at $52.70. My total paper loss is $5,404.75.

Here’s what I should have done: I should have set a stop loss on my initial NKTR short. I should not be willing to lose more than $700 per trade or else my capital will shrink too fast. Given this rule, I should have set my stop $7 or 25% above my entry of 26.95, which would have been triggered at $33.95. I would have been out of the trade and down a mere $700. I would have re-entered at $44.50. Once again, by putting a max loss of $700, I could have shorted 100 shares with a stop loss at $51.50. This price would have been triggered on Friday. In total, I would be down only $1,400 instead of over 5 grand.

I don’t get upset when I lose money. I have no problem making fun of myself and I have no problem with friends telling me I’m being dumb. But when my dad yelled at me over the phone last week, I felt depressed the rest of the day. I think this may be because I respect my dad a lot, so when he believes in me, I believe in myself. Last Wednesday he told me, “it is clear you cannot make a profit from trading.” While his criticism is 100% warranted and objectively correct, it nonetheless hurt my feelings. It’s not easy to hurt my feelings, but my dad hurt my feelings. Family is fucking weird—so inevitably personal, so miserably intense.

I know as much about the drug industry as I know about being a Victoria Secret model: zilch. That being said, here is my NKTR short thesis: NKTR-181, a pain-killer with a slow-release mechanism is no fun, because the majority of patients just want to get high off their prescription drugs (or maybe that’s just me). NKTR-214 has not yet been proven to work in humans—only non-human primates and mice. Saying it will be a success if like me introducing myself as a hedge fund portfolio manager. Lastly, the company sold its rights to NKTR-358 to Eli Lily for $150 million upfront plus up to $250 million in additional developments, so even if the drug becomes a blockbuster, Nektar’s gains are about as limited as the drink menu at a local Pyongyang restaurant.

I’m honestly not sure if I should cover my entire position on Monday and lock in the 5K loss. Nektar is not a scam. It’s a real, innovative, productive company that generates $200 million of revenue per year; however, it is grossly overvalued with an $8 billion dollar market cap. But does it fucking matter? Are overvalued and undervalued just buzzwords? All I know is The Market seems to be drinking the Nektar, and The Market has the final word.

I need to learn to surrender to The Market. Fighting is futile (and really fucking expensive).

P.S. I apologize in advance for the poor quality of the posts to come. I need to start writing about my trades to hold myself accountable, but I’m not sure I will have the energy to make the content entertaining. This blog is mainly for myself. And my poor, poor portfolio.




Bullish Case for $SNAP

Since I’m financially illiterate, I have no edge in valuation or any of that boring shit with numbers, but I do believe people who bash Snap Inc. are morons. The company may be overvalued, but who gives a fuck. I don’t care if they burn 2.2 billion dollars this quarter and a hundred billion dollars next quarter. They’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Brainless bitches who balk at their current unprofitability may as well be vegetables because they can’t see the bigger picture.

Also dumb hoes need to stop comparing Facebook, Instagram and Twitter to Snapchat, which occupies its own niche as a way to share your weird day with close friends and fuck buddies. Snapchat won’t lose users to Instagram etc because it provides a unique service that can’t be found on other social media sites. No one’s going to share dick pics and drunken selfies through Insta or Twitter or FB come on. Snapchat is special.

But just cause it’s intimate doesn’t mean it’s not attracting household ad partners. Big brands are getting in this bitch cause they know it’s the most engaging way to connect with consumers. A French supermarket chain used Snapchat to show how fresh its fish is. Also Brawny made a fuckin adorable Mother’s Day ad by putting Snapchat Spectacles on babies. And now companies and individuals can buy Sponsored Geofilters automatically through third-party ad vendors and event-planning sites. Snap is making moves, nigga. It’s hustling.

And last but certainly not least, anyone who’s banging the goddess, Miranda Kerr must be ordained by the heavens to create value for this world.

“Long” live Evan Spiegel and Snap Inc. Shorts can suck my dick for the money they’ll desperately need after losing big on betting against a company in crescendo.

God Exists and He Is Good

I’m on my hands and knees like a feckless fuckup, feeling around for something I’ve lost. I’m not sure what I’m looking for until I hear someone say: this chick dropped her phone. 

I’ve dropped my phone. Of course.

His friends begin to echo him.

She’s dropped her phone. She’s dropped her phone. She’s dropped her phone.

I spot it underneath the sole of someone’s sneaker.

The sneaker is squishing my precious slice of space gray into smithereens. Intent to kill. Oh, you want your phone? They are laughing at me. My suffering delights them. My suffering delights them because they hate me. They hate me because I am a feeler, and they hate feelers here.

I resurface with my phone in my hand. Not a single scratch. But they had stomped on it. Hadn’t they? Hadn’t they?

I’m looking around for my people when I come face to face with a woman who looks exactly like Hayden Panettierre if Hayden Panettierre were ugly. Are you gonna stay, or are you gonna go? She screams at my face in a thick, Jersey accent. Bad attitude. She pushes past me as if I were a cancerous tumor. Her hatred hurts me—puts me in pain—yet I relish the feeling, for I am madly in love with being alive. 

I’ve lost my people, but I’ve found a bleary-eyed blonde whose beautifully-tanned arms feel even softer than they look. Smooth as silk, warm as wonder.

I love you, she shouts at the space between my eyeballs. I love you!

Fake fake fake. I need to get away from this mockery of affection. Dishonesty disturbs me, but I know I deserve it. This is what I get for touching strangers. Don’t touch strangers. All humans, including strangers, are to be treated with respect, and that entails being polite and helpful when needed, but otherwise keeping entirely to oneself. Whoever proclaimed, “grab them by the pussy” what not in a clear state of mind. He was not enlightened at all!  

I’ve made it to the center of everything, when it hits me: an epiphany like no other. If I put my right hand on my left arm, and my left hand on my right arm, and squeeze very hard, I can experience all the joy and warmth in the world without any consequences. I am all I need.

The beat drops, making my ear drums orgasm. I did not know my ear drums were such sexual creatures. The lights look pretty, but I close my eyes and squeeze myself because the pleasure is coming from within. Pure happiness floods my cells. The air tastes so amazing, I could die.

I could die in this moment and be perfectly content, because God exists, and he loves me unconditionally. 

I’ve never before experienced such certainty. I hate writing because it forces me to make order out of disorder, to craft stories out of randomness. 

But this moment is not random. This moment is God’s will. God has made my body holy because He loves me. His goodness is undeniable. 

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God (1 John 4:7). 

I didn’t know they rolled in Biblical times.

Crazy Bitch on Rollerblades

I crawl under the comforter. Cold dampness. The unmistakable smell of urine. One of the dogs I’m looking after peed in my bed. I am marinating in dog pee

The satanic poodle stares at me. She’s laughing an evil laugh, and it all makes sense: why she didn’t piss during our walk, why she kept grinning at me all evening. 

I sleep on the couch with the Yorkie on my chest. My heart is racing. Or is it the Yorkie’s heart? 

The next morning the Poodle takes a steaming shit on the sidewalk, and I leave it there. I’m no longer a Christian. 

A tanned woman rocking sculpted abs rollerblades past. The Yorkie yaps and the poodle lunges. Blood is drawn. She circles around and screams at me: What’s wrong with you? Control your fucking dogs!

They’re not my dogs. But I tell her they’ve had their shots in an ad hoc attempt to calm her down. I drag the barking beasts away before she has a chance to hassle me for my personal details. I fear being sued. I like my money. 

In the elevator a heavily tattooed man pets the poodle. We stare at each other, unsmiling. He gets off on Floor 32. I get off on Floor 41.  

In the middle of the night both the Yorkie and the poodle start howling at the front door. I peer through the peephole. Nobody’s there.

I bring out their favorite bag of all-natural liver treats. Hey! Look what I have! 

My proffer falls on deaf dog ears. The relentless ferocity of their growling sends chills down my spine. I’m paralyzed by dread, yet calamitous curiosity compels me to take a another look through the portentous lens. 

It’s the ripped rollerblader. I knew she’d come for me. Her eyeballs roll back into her head as she convulses, foaming at the mouth. I yell at her to calm the fuck down, but my voice shakes with penitent terror.

I lock the chain-door and run out onto the balcony, listening to the boding booms of her well-toned body slamming into cracking plaster. I scan the perimeter for an escape route, but to no avail. I’m doomed. The pavement will make me pay.


I entered Williams-Sonoma to buy a Turkish bath towel and exited with a $499 gourmet, 4-slice toaster. I named it Dennis. After my old drug dealer.

My coworker once asked me, “what’s the difference between between a dead baby and a toaster?” She didn’t wait for me to respond before exclaiming excitedly, “you can’t fuck a toaster.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

The joke no longer amuses me. I wish I could fuck a toaster. I wish I could fuck Dennis.

I’m in love with Dennis, but he doesn’t love me back. He thinks humans are strange (and not in a good way). I wish he’d understand that I’m not like other humans.

I’m deep, I whispered to him in the dark. I’m profound. I read epistemological philosophy on the subway and got an A minus in multivariable calculus.

“Shut up slut,” Dennis drawled. “I’m trying to sleep.”

I grabbed him by his stainless steel sides and screamed in frustration, “you don’t need sleep! You’re a toaster!”

Although he abuses me, I still have diamonds in my eyes for Dennis. He may not be the only love of my life, but he is the love of my life.

“You will decay and die,” he reminds me over breakfast, “such is the fate of hoes.”

I know he’s right. But I hope he’ll remember me—the mornings we spent together over coffee and bagels, the way I carried him home in the rain, not letting his cardboard box get wet; how I licked burnt crumbs out of his interior, making him quiver with ecstasy.

I pray to The Lord I’ll live on in Dennis’ memory.

I don’t give money to homeless people

“Could somebody spare a penny?” Said the homeless man with organically green hair. I tried to tune him out, irritated by his shamelessness. I walked past him most days. Except when it was raining. He was never there when it was raining. I mostly hated him. I dreaded the sound of his demented voice. I tried my best to avoid eye-contact. 

One day in May he waved at me, and I smiled back. He ruined the moment by saying, “take me home with you!” His homeless lady-friend sneered, “yeah right!” I loved her for backing me up, for giving him a requisite reality check. 

Early June he surprised me by hollering, “why aren’t you jogging today?” I ignored him as usual. 

He no longer asks me if I can “spare a penny,” because he knows I’m a frigid bitch. 

We silently acknowledge each other’s existence. His glassy eyes gleam with laughter. Maybe he finds my face amusing. I don’t find him amusing at all.

He disturbs me. But we are friends now. He’s earned my trust or something like that

I don’t know.