I buy when other people are selling, unless they’re smarter than me—which is always.

I used to tattoo that line on my brain like gospel.
March 2020: blood in the streets, CNBC anchors pale, VIX at 82.
I bought SPY 230 puts with both fists—everyone was selling.
Three days later the Fed dropped the bazooka, the tape reversed, and my “contrarian genius” expired worthless at 9:31 a.m.
Turns out the smart money had been selling to me.

The joke writes itself, but the margin call still stings.

We worship the contrarian myth:
be the salmon, swim upstream, collect alpha.
Reality: the river is full of piranhas wearing Patagonia vests and PhDs.

I keep a private leaderboard on the wall—laminated, updated quarterly:

  1. Renaissance Medallion
  2. Citadel
  3. Jane Street
  4. My cat’s random paw swipes
    …
  5. Me

Every time I think “this dip is different,” I glance at #47 and remember:
the only thing I’m reliably early to is my own liquidation.

Last month I spotted the perfect setup:
a biotech name down 68 % in a week on zero news, volume drying up, short interest at 41 %.
Classic squeeze bait.
I sized in at 2 % of book—tiny by my old standards—because the voice in my head whispered the title quote.
Then I opened Bloomberg and saw the top holder: Coatue.
Position: short.
I closed the trade in 11 seconds flat, took a 3 % loss, and slept like a baby.

Humility is just ego with better timing.

Now my journal has a new rule in blood-red Sharpie, right under the -73 % scar:
“If they’re smarter, you’re the exit liquidity.”
I read it every morning with coffee that tastes like surrender.

Because the market doesn’t reward courage.
It rewards survival long enough to recognize the difference between a fire sale and a trapdoor.

Image to pair with the post
Hyper-realistic, 4:07 a.m. photograph:
The trader’s desk—close-up, low-angle, candle guttering in a pool of its own wax.
Center: the crumpled journal open to a fresh page.
Blood-red ink, shaky caps:
“THEY’RE SMARTER. EXIT.”
Below, a single line in black:
“Biotech short vs. Coatue. -3 % in 11 sec. Still breathing.”

Scattered evidence:

  • A laminated leaderboard printout—#1 Renaissance, #47 a sticky note with the trader’s initials.
  • A Bloomberg terminal in the background, frozen on Coatue’s 13F: massive short line circled in red.
  • A 2020 SPY 230 put ticket, expired, coffee-ringed like a crime scene.
  • One Red Bull can—unopened, condensation untouched—next to a mug that reads “Exit Liquidity 2020–2025”.

The candle flame is one breath from death; the trader’s reflection in the dark monitor shows a half-smile—relieved, not ruined.

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