martina97
aspiring dental technologist. lover of words and anything to do with teeth.
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Continuing studies show that when asked 94% of people self-report as being above average. As this is statistically impossible, explain this phenomena. No rhyming.
Written by martina97

I don't know.

Above average- better than the rest. What rest; given the 94% who think they're above average, if everybody else is below average, in order to balance the average out? Paradoxical juxtaposition, I would say.

Self- satisfaction is hard driven to mean elevation above the majority. But an average value does not have a majority and a minority- it simply is. It balances out to extrapolate a mean of mediocrity- or so it is deemed. Thenceforth, being above average means being better than the rest.

Could (almost) mean being the best.

So we have ninety-four out of every hundred people believing that they are better than everyone else. A hundred-person population from which six people are humbled (or too embarrassed) to admit that they are of mediocre value, or even below it.

A society of big headed people, which feed off the vulnerability of those six percent.

But how can we self-classify?

How can I be so ecstatically satisfied with myself that I echelon myself above the rest of the people? Above average? 

I am not one of these self-confessed above-averagers, hence I will cowardly admit that I cannot fathom a solution to the presented dilemma.  

I am not wise and knowing beyond comparison. I am average.

I will not allow myself to self-determine. Because what prevents me from reporting a wrong classification? Is it my self-esteem? And would that be based on how others view me, therefore meaning that it is ultimately not self-reporting, but rather a mirroring of the critics? And if it were so, how is it possible that 94% would report to being above average, with all this hate in the world?

Would others judge me- since they feel that they are above me, deeming my self-attestation wrong? And does that make their self-affirmation correct? Would I be too below average (or too average for that matter) to have a say in the issue?

I don't know. 

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Continuing studies show that when asked 94% of people self-report as being above average. As this is statistically impossible, explain this phenomena. No rhyming.
Written by martina97
I don't know.
Above average- better than the rest. What rest; given the 94% who think they're above average, if everybody else is below average, in order to balance the average out? Paradoxical juxtaposition, I would say.
Self- satisfaction is hard driven to mean elevation above the majority. But an average value does not have a majority and a minority- it simply is. It balances out to extrapolate a mean of mediocrity- or so it is deemed. Thenceforth, being above average means being better than the rest.
Could (almost) mean being the best.
So we have ninety-four out of every hundred people believing that they are better than everyone else. A hundred-person population from which six people are humbled (or too embarrassed) to admit that they are of mediocre value, or even below it.
A society of big headed people, which feed off the vulnerability of those six percent.
But how can we self-classify?
How can I be so ecstatically satisfied with myself that I echelon myself above the rest of the people? Above average? 
I am not one of these self-confessed above-averagers, hence I will cowardly admit that I cannot fathom a solution to the presented dilemma.  
I am not wise and knowing beyond comparison. I am average.
I will not allow myself to self-determine. Because what prevents me from reporting a wrong classification? Is it my self-esteem? And would that be based on how others view me, therefore meaning that it is ultimately not self-reporting, but rather a mirroring of the critics? And if it were so, how is it possible that 94% would report to being above average, with all this hate in the world?
Would others judge me- since they feel that they are above me, deeming my self-attestation wrong? And does that make their self-affirmation correct? Would I be too below average (or too average for that matter) to have a say in the issue?

I don't know. 
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Written by martina97

Evening thoughts

Should I be ecstatic that the day has ended, henceforth revealing that I am currently older than twenty four hours ago? Or should I be aghast, as another day has taken its toll on me?

Should I be calm, grateful that I was lent a few more hours than perhaps some unlucky others? Or am I one of the unlucky ones for that same reason?

Should I be proud to have lived through? Or was it somehow more surviving rather than living?

The clock will keep on ticking, with no way to know if each second will be my last. So I cannot do much;

except be.

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Written by martina97
Evening thoughts
Should I be ecstatic that the day has ended, henceforth revealing that I am currently older than twenty four hours ago? Or should I be aghast, as another day has taken its toll on me?
Should I be calm, grateful that I was lent a few more hours than perhaps some unlucky others? Or am I one of the unlucky ones for that same reason?
Should I be proud to have lived through? Or was it somehow more surviving rather than living?

The clock will keep on ticking, with no way to know if each second will be my last. So I cannot do much;

except be.
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Written by martina97

Early excitement

You know what excites me? It's the clichéd little things. 

It's the glistening morning dew, quenching the thirst of victorious snails, triumphant over yet another night.

It's the aroma of the petalled flowers, scenting their way through the morning, never ceasing their exuding.

It's the chirping of birds, melodiously fulfilling the idyllic demands of my morning ears.

It's the soft touch of the fire ball's rays on my prickling skin, thawing me in preparation for the day.

And finally, it's the taste of human bodies inside me, as they approach me- blissfully oblivious to the dangers I present. For I look glorious, yet I can engulf lives in the most cunning way. The choice to come inside me is yours, but the choice to stay eternally is mine. 

For no one thinks anything of the serene lakes, the inviting sea and the soothing springs.

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Written by martina97
Early excitement
You know what excites me? It's the clichéd little things. 
It's the glistening morning dew, quenching the thirst of victorious snails, triumphant over yet another night.
It's the aroma of the petalled flowers, scenting their way through the morning, never ceasing their exuding.
It's the chirping of birds, melodiously fulfilling the idyllic demands of my morning ears.
It's the soft touch of the fire ball's rays on my prickling skin, thawing me in preparation for the day.

And finally, it's the taste of human bodies inside me, as they approach me- blissfully oblivious to the dangers I present. For I look glorious, yet I can engulf lives in the most cunning way. The choice to come inside me is yours, but the choice to stay eternally is mine. 
For no one thinks anything of the serene lakes, the inviting sea and the soothing springs.

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Written by martina97

Good night!

Good night. Have a good night. Have a full eight hours of wasting time doing nothing productive. Have an incessant stretch of time accumulating adipose tissue, as you slink off to bed right after a gargantuan meal. Have a restful third of a day, only to wake up feeling as tired as you felt before you slept. 

Recharge your batteries, for it is the only allowed intermission in today's fast pace life. Make the most of these hours, as they are the only relief and moments of solitude you can indulge in. It is the only time when you get to take off your mask, and be true to yourself as none other is there to judge you. So may you have a good night!

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Written by martina97
Good night!
Good night. Have a good night. Have a full eight hours of wasting time doing nothing productive. Have an incessant stretch of time accumulating adipose tissue, as you slink off to bed right after a gargantuan meal. Have a restful third of a day, only to wake up feeling as tired as you felt before you slept. 
Recharge your batteries, for it is the only allowed intermission in today's fast pace life. Make the most of these hours, as they are the only relief and moments of solitude you can indulge in. It is the only time when you get to take off your mask, and be true to yourself as none other is there to judge you. So may you have a good night!
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Written by martina97

Mother

Your harsh words are like swords piercing my soft cardiovascular muscle. Your angry demanour instigates the rebelliousness within my feeble soul. To the woman too proud to admit when she has wronged, too selfish to take fault and excuse herself. 

I love you, but it is not the love you can accept. It is not the love you learned to convey and to demand in return. Please don't chide me for not knowing how to love by your standards, for one shall never love quite like another.

It is a burning love- sometimes hurting both the giver and the receiver. It is a not-always-present love. But I put all I can into it, so at least appreciate and love me for that, if be it for nothing else. I yearn for a mother's love. I crave your love. For who I am, I can account to you. 

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Written by martina97
Mother
Your harsh words are like swords piercing my soft cardiovascular muscle. Your angry demanour instigates the rebelliousness within my feeble soul. To the woman too proud to admit when she has wronged, too selfish to take fault and excuse herself. 
I love you, but it is not the love you can accept. It is not the love you learned to convey and to demand in return. Please don't chide me for not knowing how to love by your standards, for one shall never love quite like another.
It is a burning love- sometimes hurting both the giver and the receiver. It is a not-always-present love. But I put all I can into it, so at least appreciate and love me for that, if be it for nothing else. I yearn for a mother's love. I crave your love. For who I am, I can account to you. 
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Written by martina97 in portal Romance & Erotica

Dreams

Flesh on flesh. Heat. Sweat. 

Oh God your taste.

Move your body on mine. Make me melt within you. We'll become one. A superhuman filled with unfathomable desire and lust and yearning. Capable of factualising even the very wildest of dreams. Whatever I demand, you deliver. Whatever you crave, I exude.

I love you.

Physically. Psychologically.

I want you. Every tasteful piece, I want it all.

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Written by martina97 in portal Romance & Erotica
Dreams
Flesh on flesh. Heat. Sweat. 
Oh God your taste.
Move your body on mine. Make me melt within you. We'll become one. A superhuman filled with unfathomable desire and lust and yearning. Capable of factualising even the very wildest of dreams. Whatever I demand, you deliver. Whatever you crave, I exude.
I love you.
Physically. Psychologically.
I want you. Every tasteful piece, I want it all.

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Written by martina97

Outside

Monochrome pointillism. 

Walking soft toys. 

Plush quilts of green fur. 

Sky high branches with side streets of pigmented leaves. 

The snails crawling along, shell-less, in serious dilemmas, setting their eyeless eyes on which green patches would satisfy their munchies. 

The natural aeroplanes sing their way through the soft morning, attending to their young as only a bird can do. 

The sky and the earth encapsulating their wonders, ready to offer the world a one too many sip of drenching rain. 

The earth screaming as the water hits its surface, impregnating it with the vital source of life in order to proliferate. 

The harmony. The orchestrating of many imperfect things to produce something perfect. The shortcoming of the trunks in moving is made up for by the swaying leaved beanches. The falling short of the mama bird in having to leave her babies alone whilst in search of food is compensated by the safe nest.

The imperfections align to make one entire world of should-be untouched beauty.

Then, 

man comes along

(without the deserving uppercase initial). 

The pointillism is trodded upon. Destruction follows. Colourful bunches of gloriously smelling pollen-hosters die.

The soft toys are drained of every last drop of milk, and skinned for wool. There is no end to their suffering, as everyone and everything is in pain under man's unrightful tyranny over nature.

Snails are crushed, or eaten. Their whole lives are reduced to being boiled alive in a pot, with tomatoes- which have been overfarmed and overpesticidised.

The birds are shot at. For fun. For personal satisfaction. To be able to be stuffed and put on display. The young are left to die, not as of yet entirely independent.

The orchestra is no longer there. The violins are killed off, the drums keeping the beat are hunted, the delicate flutes extracted from their habitat.

Destroyal ensues.

The falling short of the harmony can no longer be compensated. It is further unbalanced, unsalvageable.

The should- be untouched beauty can now never be as pure. Ecosystems have been permanently altered.

Idiot man. Stupid brains. Ruining tyran. 

Nature's parasite.

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Written by martina97
Outside
Monochrome pointillism. 
Walking soft toys. 
Plush quilts of green fur. 
Sky high branches with side streets of pigmented leaves. 
The snails crawling along, shell-less, in serious dilemmas, setting their eyeless eyes on which green patches would satisfy their munchies. 
The natural aeroplanes sing their way through the soft morning, attending to their young as only a bird can do. 
The sky and the earth encapsulating their wonders, ready to offer the world a one too many sip of drenching rain. 
The earth screaming as the water hits its surface, impregnating it with the vital source of life in order to proliferate. 
The harmony. The orchestrating of many imperfect things to produce something perfect. The shortcoming of the trunks in moving is made up for by the swaying leaved beanches. The falling short of the mama bird in having to leave her babies alone whilst in search of food is compensated by the safe nest.
The imperfections align to make one entire world of should-be untouched beauty.

Then, 
man comes along
(without the deserving uppercase initial). 
The pointillism is trodded upon. Destruction follows. Colourful bunches of gloriously smelling pollen-hosters die.
The soft toys are drained of every last drop of milk, and skinned for wool. There is no end to their suffering, as everyone and everything is in pain under man's unrightful tyranny over nature.
Snails are crushed, or eaten. Their whole lives are reduced to being boiled alive in a pot, with tomatoes- which have been overfarmed and overpesticidised.
The birds are shot at. For fun. For personal satisfaction. To be able to be stuffed and put on display. The young are left to die, not as of yet entirely independent.
The orchestra is no longer there. The violins are killed off, the drums keeping the beat are hunted, the delicate flutes extracted from their habitat.
Destroyal ensues.
The falling short of the harmony can no longer be compensated. It is further unbalanced, unsalvageable.
The should- be untouched beauty can now never be as pure. Ecosystems have been permanently altered.
Idiot man. Stupid brains. Ruining tyran. 

Nature's parasite.

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Written by martina97

I hate you

Fuck you. Using me like a dishcloth when I've done so much for you. Disrespecting me like I am no one, after I gave up my very happy life so that I could have a mediocre one but with you in it. Fuck you for never choosing me first, even though you were and still (very stupidly) are my first, second and third choice. But most of all fuck you for hooking onto me like theres no other life, maintaining enough proximity to maintain my attachment, but not too close in order to maintain your cool. And fuck you for staying when I told you not to. 

I hate you, boyfriend.

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Written by martina97
I hate you
Fuck you. Using me like a dishcloth when I've done so much for you. Disrespecting me like I am no one, after I gave up my very happy life so that I could have a mediocre one but with you in it. Fuck you for never choosing me first, even though you were and still (very stupidly) are my first, second and third choice. But most of all fuck you for hooking onto me like theres no other life, maintaining enough proximity to maintain my attachment, but not too close in order to maintain your cool. And fuck you for staying when I told you not to. 
I hate you, boyfriend.
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Written by martina97

Confession

I wouldn't call it sadness. But I wouldn't call it happiness either. I would call it- just being. A numb feeling washing over me every time I do something which used to previously entice me. An empty feeling each time I look at Him. A confused feeling each time I write, or draw. It's a constant state of limbo, which can neither be articulated nor communicated in any other way. This limbo which has sucked the life out of me has made me a bother, a nuisance to be around. I can never please those around me- but why should I try? I cannot be made happy by trying to make others happy. But I still catch myself trying sometimes- how pathetic. An introverted extrovert who more often than not speaks a word- or a hundred-too much. A person who cries for pathetic attention to make up for the lack of it from yours truly. Is it worth to continue living like this? No happiness- but no sadness either. It's just being.

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Written by martina97
Confession
I wouldn't call it sadness. But I wouldn't call it happiness either. I would call it- just being. A numb feeling washing over me every time I do something which used to previously entice me. An empty feeling each time I look at Him. A confused feeling each time I write, or draw. It's a constant state of limbo, which can neither be articulated nor communicated in any other way. This limbo which has sucked the life out of me has made me a bother, a nuisance to be around. I can never please those around me- but why should I try? I cannot be made happy by trying to make others happy. But I still catch myself trying sometimes- how pathetic. An introverted extrovert who more often than not speaks a word- or a hundred-too much. A person who cries for pathetic attention to make up for the lack of it from yours truly. Is it worth to continue living like this? No happiness- but no sadness either. It's just being.
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Written by martina97 in portal Trident Media Group

Title.

What fuels me to write? Is it the exasperation at my own non fiction reality so much so that i have to create an alternate universe? Is it me requiring enhancement of the shortcomings of this same non fictitious world? Is it me escaping this satan's spawn of a foresaken unwanted gift we call life? Which by the way we have to appreciate as if it was bestowed on us by a godly being when it was most definitely not asked for? I am not entirely sure, but I am glad that at least for a few seconds, a few words can make everything alright, even if they are inherent, even if they are not spoken or directed to anyone. Just black strings of letters dancing on a white background- and everything will be okay again.

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Written by martina97 in portal Trident Media Group
Title.
What fuels me to write? Is it the exasperation at my own non fiction reality so much so that i have to create an alternate universe? Is it me requiring enhancement of the shortcomings of this same non fictitious world? Is it me escaping this satan's spawn of a foresaken unwanted gift we call life? Which by the way we have to appreciate as if it was bestowed on us by a godly being when it was most definitely not asked for? I am not entirely sure, but I am glad that at least for a few seconds, a few words can make everything alright, even if they are inherent, even if they are not spoken or directed to anyone. Just black strings of letters dancing on a white background- and everything will be okay again.
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