The best days I have are those where I look up and around and say,

Alright Universe, what’s in store for today?

And then when things seem to go to shit,

I laugh instead of yell, and I look up and around and say,

Alright Universe, what do you want me to learn from this?

And then when things go together and all of life seems smooth,

I smile and enjoy the magic, and I look up and around and say,

Thank You for knowing all I do not need to know;

I will try to trust you again tomorrow.

I thought that maybe people considered themselves above-average because they couldn't quite grasp the concept of above-average. But maybe, the issue relies in that people do not grasp what average means. The word in itself has unknowingly cultivated a shroud of hopelessness around it. "Just one more in the lot", "nothing to see here", untalented, useless, mediocre, average... 

Women that are not stunning are called beautiful, because they cannot stand to think that they're looks can be pleasant and pretty but not gorgeous beyond believe. Humans are all about the black and white; forgetting purposefully about the endless shades of grays. Talented individuals are called geniuses and prodigies for accomplishments they have ease in when in comparison to their peers. They're big fishes in small ponds, nothing more. They cannot be dark grays in this black and white world. 

Average is all about the grays.

Average means the middle point between idiocy and genius, between untalented and genius. Yet, people supplant average with below par, because while there is a high enough numbers of failures and successes, there is an overwhelming number of middle-point individuals who don't even succeed in failing spectacularly enough to be stripped away from the herd. People are scared of being sheep. 

Average means smart, and friendly, and loyal and a bunch of other nice things... good qualities are not monopolized by the individuals who do in-fact fit the bill to be called above-average. If everyone you know is quite smart, and quite nice and all those things look for the one person that's just that much more and that's probably still not above-average. The range for your investigation being so reduce in comparison to the six billion people in the world that the chances of that person truly being more than the normal population are minimal.

I also chalk this up to a quirky mechanism in our brain. See, when you're trying to prove a theory you're brain brings forth only the information that supports that theory.  Once we've established that people like to disassociate themselves from the negative-connotations surrounding the idea of being average, when they're asked if they're above average their minds go: "of course!" and proceeds to support the idea with evidence. The thing is that even average people get moments of glory, just like above-average people experience failure. The idea here is that average people experience more failure than success through hard work, while the contrary is true for above-average people with less of an effort in their part. 

In my homeland we have a popular saying "Cada loco con su tema". It roughly means "every weirdo with his theme". What it refers to is that everyone has something they're passionate about. Talent isn't an all-encompassing blessing that makes people prodigious in everything they do. In fact, talent tends to show itself in a particular area of a person's life. I firmly believe that everyone has a talent. That said, wouldn't anyone considered above-average in an aspect of their lives unknowingly or knowingly extend that recognition into their entire selves? Of course, this works because they wouldn't take into account that everyone else has an area in their life they're above-average in, therefore balancing each other out.  

Really, it all comes down to our fear of not being worthy of love and acceptance and our fear of being forgotten. We feel that in order to deserve anything in life we have to be more. More than what, though? That is a question I struggle with myself. But above-average is as good a mark as any. Above-average may put us down in history, or the local paper or at least in people's minds... or their mouths... Or anything to make it seem like one human in six billion in a millennia of lives could leave a mark in this world.

Above-average makes us feel special and worthy, it gives credit to our innermost desire of deserving respect, deserving love, deserving good things in life. Because we naively believe that if we deserve something, we'll get it. 

6% of people self-report they are below average, but they are way above average in self-reporting. The 94% of people self-reporting to be above average are actually below average in self-reporting. The first shall be last and the last, first. Unless, of course, you're EXACTLY average. Then, you'll have to just wait in line with the rest of 'em. Average wait time for this ride is 80 or so years, unless you can somehow get a FastPass, which is by walking into a concentrated ghetto of ethnic homogeneity, chanting anti-ethnic slogans and slurs about said ethnic residents who live in the said ethnically concentrated homogeneity. When asked, 94% of people self-report that they can do this above average, but they only say that because they feel the other 6% live in said ethnically concentrated areas. 

Only 12% of researchers say they've never fudged their results; 22% say they have. And 97% admit that they would do it if it proved they were in the 94% of those who are above average. 15% of all women are lesbians, but another 30% say that, while denying it, they still think about them all the time. 4% of women are bed wetters and 9% of these are prostitutes. 

57% of those living in trailer parks say they have real class. The other 43% are only between trailers at the time and expect to have class real soon. 87% of people report they find Charmin advertisements effective because of an unreasonable fear of inadequate toilet paper. The other 13% have no problem using a gas station rest room or a Port-o-Potty. 100% of Americans, on average, state they have never been to North Dakota, including 39% of people who are from South Dakota. 

92% of Catholic nuns prefer Coke over Pepsi, creating a severe, secret schism that has ravaged all of the orders for over 60 years. They say that Pepsi is NOT O.K. Don't even get 46% of them started.

87% of plumbers expose butt-crack when working; 86% of housewives turn away. According to skin area studies used in burn patients, the "Rule of 8s" says that 8% of you is one leg, whereas 73% of people report that they think 100% of you is asshole. 49% of people see their cups as half-full; another 49% see them as half-empty; the remaining 1% are half-full of themselves, constituting the 94% of people self-reporting they are above average. 29% of people see their wit as half-full, and another 18% see everyone else's wit as dim. 

95% of people feel that God is love; 67% of these feel that love is blind; 100% of these know that Ray Charles is blind; 36% think that Ray Charles is God. 47% of people know the difference between shit and Shinola; 53% of people have the shiniest shoes in town, but are plagued by dogs everywhere they go.

72% of alcoholics say, "Bottoms up!" 28% of them say, "Arghwewcrrrhuggh..." 100% of the vaginal lining is stratified squamous epithelium, but only 31% of vaginal linings are satisfied squamous epithelium. 82% of those who watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians have never read a book; 100% of those who have read a book have never seen Keeping Up with the Kardashians. 40% of people think O.J. is innocent and 60% think he is guilty, but 100% of his two victims are dead.

96% of the beautiful people are only beautiful on the outside; the other 4% are losing their remaining scruples more quickly than 2nd Place winners in beauty pageants. 48% of people believe strongly in Climate Change; 45% are Climate-Deniers; but 100% of the Earth will survive long after everyone and everything are extinct. 34% of people who believe in Climate Change believe people can change.

If you add up all of the %'s there are to report, it would be 9,463,965,397,348 x 10 to the 23rd power %. If you divide that by the 94% of those who feel they are above average, each of them think they should get way more than what they deserve from the remaining 6%, who are behind on their student loans. Of all the dollars and cents there are up for grabs, that comes out to 96 per measly cent. This proves there's never going to be enough to go around--less than 100%, and it's dropping fast.

Hello, I just joined today. I'm still bumbling around trying to figure it out. I've been writing seriously since around 1997. I have a BA in English Literature from Western Washington University. 

I've had a little bit of success publishing short stories, haibun, creative non-fiction and recently a novella as well as some self-published short story collections. I'm hoping to connect with other writers here on Prose.

The desert of Eastern Washington is a place of dryness and death. Without water nothing can live here. The thin little stream that cuts through the harsh rock and sand provides nourishment for the willow trees and the grassy meadow. It is the single life-giving artery in this arid place.

I walk along the west bank of the stream just as the sun rises in the east casting off reds and violets across the black, sharp stone ridges. A small white tail deer stands atop a crumbling ridge staring down curiously, afraid of the upright predator parting the thick weeds by the stream.

I have to be careful that my shadow falls behind me and not across the stream. The trout here are wild. Everything in their world is either a threat or a meal. Unnatural movement or reflections on the water scatters them. They are selective in their eating habits. Even my steps along the bank are measured. It’s a trade off; the rule is walk heavy for the snakes and softly for the trout. Rattlers, like trout don’t have ears, but are very sensitive to vibrations, striking suddenly when surprised.

I’m looking for dimples or swirls in the stream’s current, any sign that gives away the trout’s position. They always face upstream in feeding lanes where the current drifts insects down to them. Caloric energy is a premium in their world, and they never waste it lightly.

And then I see it, a break in the gentle flow of the current, the sloppy splash from a big tail, slashing back and forth in the trout’s enthusiasm for its breakfast.

I pull a few feet of slick fly-line off the titanium reel, making sure there are no kinks or tangles. I hear the methodic click of the metal drag deep within the reel as the fly-line peels smoothly off the arbor. I hold the tiny fly between my thumb and index finger, blowing on the delicate spun deer hair, and dark brown turkey feathers, fluffing them up, so they will be more buoyant. Then I gently press the point of the steel hook into the tip of my thumbnail to test its sharpness. Looking over my right shoulder, I check to make sure no hanging branches from the willow tree behind me will obstruct the path of the nine and a half foot graphite fly rod, as it is pulled vertical on the back cast, in a steady sharp snap of my arm.

But it’s not about the technical aspects of fly-fishing; the stalking, casting, and landing of the fish are unimportant. When the moment is upon me all these things drop away. There’s this feeling of clear intuition guiding me. Time is a tentative force in the background, and the stream and surrounding desert disappear. Only perfect momentum remains. I feel nothing but the flowing motion. It is the purity of form obtained in the action of doing. The motion of my body, the flow of the stream, cause and effect suspended in the structure of synchronized rhythm.

With the soft landing of the tiny fly on the gentle water, and moments later a large silver trout cruising from the depths, breaking the barrier between air and water to take it, shaking the energy of its life into my rod and through my arm.

It is always fleeting though, never captured, never grasped, or described. I have the moments spent stalking the trout, the long sweeping cast, and the trout’s short fierce battle for freedom. Then the brief period after, gently holding the slippery trout for a quick picture and then releasing it back into its cold home, but this is all. Only a shadow of the grace may be reflected in the depths of my eyes, or a faded copy of excitement imprinted slightly in the tone of my voice. Maybe the memory of wanting to be an angler, and learning to fish, and later in life, wanting to be an artist and learning to fly-fish. These thoughts and memories remain, the rest drift down stream.