It was 2030, and everyone had a meme coin

It was 2030, and everyone had a meme coin.

Not just the influencers and YouTubers. Everyone. Your plumber had one. Your grandma had one. Even babies got their meme coins minted at birth, complete with animated GIF avatars drooling on themselves in ultra-HD.

And what was a meme coin? A share in you.

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Literally. You could sell 1% of your life—your labor, your time, even your opinions—and others could trade it like any other cryptocurrency. You sold a piece of yourself and in return, you got funding, clout, or access to gated Discord servers where billionaires shared slightly better workout tips.

This is how Derek Dallimore, an otherwise forgettable 24-year-old urban planning major with no urban planning skills, accidentally sold 60% of himself.

It started off innocently enough. Derek wanted to fund his education at the New Harvard-Uber-Coinbase University (NHUCU). The school was expensive, mostly because each course came with a mandatory NFT degree scroll you had to stake in your MetaWallet to attend lectures. So he sold what he thought was 6% of his personal meme coin to cover the cost.

He clicked the wrong button.

Sold 60%.

Now, Derek was a minority shareholder in his own life.

And worse? He forgot to put restrictions in his meme coin smart contract.

The first thing his “holders” did was force him to change his pronouns on all social media bios to “/blank/null/gendering/unconfigured.”

Then came the mandatory meme posts. Hourly.

Anti-racist memes (in 2030, racism was required—if you weren’t racist, people assumed you were stupid)

Pro-hatred memes (you had to hate someone, and it had to be expressive)

And, oddly enough, “Mondays Are Oppression” memes, which were weirdly popular among upper-middle-class anarchists.

“Bro,” his best friend said. “They’ve got you ratio-posting your own opinions.”

Derek wept.

To make matters worse, the hottest social trend was legalized, voluntary micro-slavery. People with 20% ownership of others would band together to form coalitions. They’d vote on what the person had to do that week.

Derek’s current week looked like this:

Post a 1-minute video in a fake stutter explaining why men shouldn’t exist

Deliver burritos to a woman named Skylar who paid extra for him to wear a tutu

Read “Mein Kampf” live on stream while crying (anti-Semitism was very trendy in 2030)

Lick his own elbow on TikTok. Every. Day.

He needed to get back control—he needed at least 11% of himself to hold a majority stake.

But meme coin values had spiked. His 1% shares were now trading at 4 ETH each.

He tried a GoFundMe.

“Help me buy back 11% of myself so I can legally tell people to shut up.”

It raised $42. Mostly in dog-based altcoins.

Then came his big break. An anonymous holder messaged him.

“Sell me the last 5% you own, and I’ll return the 60% you sold. You get 65%. You’re free.”

“But why?” Derek typed back.

“I miss when people were real. Even idiots like you. And, maybe you will be useful to me one day.”

He paused. Then agreed. This wasn’t the time to be picky.

The next morning, he was finally in control again.

He went outside, breathed fresh air, and instantly got arrested. Turns out he forgot to stake his Walking Permit NFT.

Welcome to 2030.