one JPEG away from recovery.
The Meeting Room
We gather in the church basement every Wednesday at seven. The coffee’s free, the Wi-Fi isn’t, and the only rule is no shilling during introductions.
Our folding-chair circle includes eight survivors of the great JPEG boom. Everyone lost something — money, reputation, sanity, or a very rare penguin wearing a cowboy hat.
The leader, Carl, rings a bell and says, “Welcome, friends. Remember, healing is a non-fungible process.”
Introductions
“Hi, I’m Lacey,” says a woman clutching a printed screenshot of a cartoon frog. “I listed my NFT for 0.1 ETH in 2021. Someone offered 0.09, and I panicked. I still wake up at night hearing the OpenSea notification sound.”
The group murmurs support.
Next is Trevor, whose profile picture still has the hexagonal border. “I had a Bored Ape named Kevin,” he says, voice trembling. “I called him a friend. Then one day… he was gone. Sold for gas money.”
Someone passes him a tissue. It’s a laminated receipt from Coinbase.
Therapeutic Exercises
Carl has us close our eyes and imagine a world without floor prices. “Breathe in liquidity, breathe out speculation,” he says. “Visualize detachment.”
In the corner, a projector hums softly, displaying everyone’s old NFTs in a slow slideshow.
A man named Vince interrupts. “Can we just admit that mine still has utility?”
The group groans. Utility talk is a relapse symptom. Carl hands him a pamphlet titled ‘Coping with Unrealized Gains.’
Group Sharing
One by one, we confess our lowest moments.
• Buying our own listings to “create volume.”
• Taking out loans against JPEGs of rocks.
• Explaining to our parents that yes, the monkey was supposed to make us rich.
“I once spent two hours explaining rarity traits to my therapist,” says Lacey. “He billed me in Dogecoin.”
We nod. We understand.
The Breakthrough
Toward the end, a new member speaks. “I burned my NFTs,” she says quietly. “It was supposed to be a cleansing ritual.”
Carl leans forward. “And how do you feel now?”
She smiles. “Free.”
The room falls silent. For a moment, we all believe redemption is possible.
Then Vince checks his phone. “Wait,” he whispers. “My floor’s up 20 percent.”
The relapse is instantaneous. Chairs scrape. Metamasks open. Someone yells, “We’re back!”
Carl sighs and refills the coffee pot.
