I write to get happy. This is about me. We spend all our time packaging and refining to sell. An idea. Action. Decision. Status quo… I’m tired of selling someone else’s product! I just want to get happy! What do you do to get happy? My thoughts dance out of my mind as the never ending troupe of words, sentences and paragraphs groove to the sweet melody of my fingers hitting the small spring-loaded keys.
I write to own my weird.
I once reviewed an evaluation sheet in which someone took an average of an average. For those mathematically savvy, average of an average is a non-number with no value-add. You may as well call it imaginary.
To the average, you cannot add, subtract, divide, multiply or expand it exponentially.
When we say someone is average, do we mean the same thing? The person is just the sum of everyone’s characteristics divided by the population…? With no distinguishing characteristic of his own? Nothing can be done to make the person better or worse?
How tragic? How insulting! Have you ever been called average?
Average is the norm. Average is rather dull. I’m not a fan.
It used to offend me.
Now, I’m ecstatic to be called weird.
Getting older has its benefits.