There’s a particular shame in ordering a drink named after an aspiration.
I’ve been having too many. It’s not the alcohol; it’s the ritual. Ice clinking like newsroom chatter. Citrus cutting through the sugar like skepticism cutting through hype.
I drink them while checking Bitcoin.
It crashed again—or at least dipped enough to activate the doom prophets. Every time it falls, the same people emerge like cicadas. “Told you so,” they hum.
But markets breathe. That’s what I tell myself. They inhale mania and exhale regret.
Still, I find myself staring at the chart longer than I should. I don’t even own much. I just like watching belief fluctuate.
Maybe I don’t need cocktails. Maybe I need volatility.