We all like to think that we're better.

Better than our neighbor, better than our boss, better than our friends.

On the surface, that's the secret behind oh-so-many of us holding firm in the belief we're above average.

When asked, are you above average?

Ninety-four percent of us say, yes.

Ninety-four percent of us.

Above the fifty percent line.

It's the thought, that we don't have to be the best, we just have to be doing better than most, that grants us this delusion.

Our peace of mind, rather.

There are so very few people we see that we think highly of.

Who do you admire?

Truly.

A couple, at most.

Now.

Who do you look down on?

Really.

More than a couple, at least.

Our self-reports mean nothing.

Because at our cores, we are all afraid that we mean nothing.

We all present otherwise.

Of course we all present otherwise.

What else is life other than just a grand scheme?

Posturing. Endlessly.

Have you ever met anyone who doesn't?

Our hate, struggles, and stress would consume us if we didn't.

It's how we sleep at night.

Deeper, beneath the surface of our secret, is the final realization that our hold on this belief is weak.

Because in our hearts, we don't want to be better than others.

We want to be better than the perspective we fear other people have of us.

If we're afraid we'll die alone, that we'll leave nothing behind, we all just want to live a life we're satisfied with.

And how is satisfaction measured?

Above par, I would imagine.

And where is par?

Halve the lives on this planet, and see the top half.

That's where we'd like to be.

It's not too hard to understand.

And it's easy to believe in the lies we tell ourselves.

Why not study it?

It's fascinating.

I get it.

So, ask me where I think I rank.

And, of course I will tell you, 

Above that 50% margin.

But.

We could all take a note from that lost minority.

The six percent.

When asked, where do you place yourself?

They answered, below average.

What do you think it takes to give such an answer?

Humility, sure.

Clarity, certainly.

It's the best we can all hope for.

Because the world is a harsh place. 

But instead of seeing it, and everyone in it as the enemy and yourself as somehow better, I like to think that people like the six percent, live their life seeing the world the way it's meant to be seen.

Looking everywhere they see with rose-colored glasses.

Everywhere, except the mirror. 

Seeing themselves in the mix, instead of above it.

The very thing that makes them different, the six percent, is believing that they are not.

Noble.

And freeing, living like that.

There are different aspects to people. Some people are fast at running, while some are not. Some people are good at math, and some aren't. The list goes on. Every person has certain aspects of themselves that they excel in, and certain aspects of themselves that they are pretty bad at. We are encouraged to focus on what we are great at; for example, if someone is amazing at tennis, they would take more classes and might turn professional. For this reason, people, when asked if they are above average, think about what they do in life; usually what they excel in. And thus, they would be above average in the field. That explains why 94% of people think they are above average; it's because they are above average in the field(s) they work in.

August 2017

It doesn't matter anymore, I guess, what we have going on here. I guess everyone felt it coming: Judgement Day. The Day of Reckoning. The Day When She'd Go Off Because She Is Sick of His Shit.

You know, she wants me to apologize to you. Say something along the lines of... "I lost my temper, which was completely inappropriate, and I said things that I didn't mean and I'm sorry." But what does that mean? "I'm sorry." At this point, I'd say it means nothing.

You've never apologized to me for anything. For all of the years you wasted time and energy on me, giving me the false hope that, deep down, you have faith in me. But all of that time just went to ridiculing me. Letting me sink into a dark place of hatred towards myself. Falling deeper and deeper, sirens singing, and just allowing me to live in despair. You've gotta see that this was meant to happen. After all of the hurtful things you've said; the ridicule, the torment, the fear for my life.

I meant exactly what I said, so there's no apology that matters. Maybe I should apologize for being disrespectful and violating that relationship between adults and children. But I'm not a child. I'm sixteen years old and, let's be clear; next year, I'll be a senior in high school, ready to leave for college.

So, Judgement Day. I remember exactly what I said. "That's illegal. You can't do that. You told me to go kill myself. So no, I'm not doing that. No, I don't understand. I am sick of you treating me like this. Like a plague. I'm done being mistreated."

Now I have to apologize for being honest after all of these years of passiveness. Fuck that.

A limerick challenge was waiting

for rhyme (without rhythm abating).

Words plopped into place

to marry the pace

while humor got stuck in the grating.

I needed a way to unstick it

(that laugh that was lodged in the thicket

of whirl-minded word,

soon written absurd)

before all the Prosers would picket!

Just then, in a moment inspiring

my fingers fair flew with desiring

the ditty below

for gauntlet to throw

(and get all our cylinders firing).

The Limerick

There once was a poet so dandy

who lived on a beach long and sandy

the problem so sad

that this poet had

was that he was not very handy.

He often would burn his potatoes

when cooking. To can his tomatoes,

he took on a chef

(with moniker “Jeff”)

who promptly flew off to Barbados.

When it came to cleaning or mopping,

the poet would spend his time chopping

up words to apply

(in hopes they would dry)

as cover for dust-bunny droppings.

He’d stumble in haphazard fashion

while trying to live out his passion

of life by the sea;

Alas! Woe was he!

He never fared well on sea-rations!

The moral; if one finds it needed,

is happiness might be impeded,

without and within,

but chin up your chin,

when life hands you limericks screeded!