I stare and stare at the computer screen, my right index finger quivering above the mouse. For the past two hours, I've crafted and recrafted the perfect opening trade offer, expertly designed to capture the fancy of my targeted owner, Mr. Spots. But I can't hit send. Can't bear the thought that Mr. Spots will be underwhelmed and will scold me and think mean things of me. I am not Fantasy Scout -- a ruthless, heartless prognosticating machine whose Week 8 projections we'll reveal in just a minute. I am a sensitive ninny. And this makes me a lousy trader.