Blockchain Ain’t a Career—It’s a Crime Scene

 

You log in. You bridge. You burn gas.

And all you get is rugged by a protocol with a pastel logo and a Twitter account last active three weeks ago.

Welcome to crypto.

They told us this was going to be the future of finance.
They forgot to mention it would also be the future of financial trauma.

Today’s mood?
Feral. Broke. Deliriously hopeful.

Wallet’s full of:

• Staked tokens with no unlock date

• Airdrops I missed by one tweet

• Gas fees that could’ve fed me for a week

But I’m still here.
Because I didn’t come for the tech.
I came for the fight.

I want:

• Dirty contracts

• Broken UIs

• Tokens with names so dumb they loop back into brilliance

• Forks of forks of forks

• Markets held together by zip ties, copium, and expired whitepapers

This isn’t a “space.”
It’s a squat.
A digital wasteland where the only rule is Don’t Get Got Twice.

So if you’re still in here clicking “Sign” without blinking, scouring Twitter for alpha, or arguing over tokenomics in a forum run by a guy named 0xRuggedYou, I salute you.

You’re not investing.
You’re surviving.

Stay raw,
A.B. Gobling