Amount of texts to »me« 130, and there are 118 texts (90.77%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3)
Average lenght of texts 127 Characters
Average Rating 1.300 points, 24 Not rated texts
First text on Apr 8th 2000, 04:29:37 wrote
me about me
Latest text on Nov 1st 2015, 12:46:02 wrote
carolyn stewart about me
Some texts that have not been rated at all
(overall: 24)

on Oct 30th 2015, 09:15:13 wrote
carolyn stewart about me

on Dec 13th 2005, 15:56:44 wrote
Emma Example about me

on Dec 25th 2001, 04:11:13 wrote
Seneca about me

Random associativity, rated above-average positively

Texts to »Me«

Josef wrote on May 5th 2000, 01:01:50 about

me

Rating: 21 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun

Me, a name I call the rational, conscious part of my brain. Freud called this the ego, or self. So what are the parts of me that aren't me? Do my subconscious thoughts share my existance, or just interact with it? Can I (being »me«) assume responsibility for the uncontrolled actions of my id and superego? And if this is »me«, then who the hell are »you«?

The Old Curiosity Shop by Charles Dickens wrote on Jul 22nd 2004, 23:11:43 about

me

Rating: 23 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'

daniel wrote on May 4th 2000, 09:45:39 about

me

Rating: 11 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

I finally found that the force at the center of the universe is not me.

ontheverge wrote on Mar 2nd 2002, 06:05:13 about

me

Rating: 7 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

Me is all I've ever wanted to be.

elizabeth wrote on Apr 13th 2000, 22:47:04 about

me

Rating: 3 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

They were asking what I think about me. But I was afraid of what they would do with the information if I gave it to them. In truth, I was afraid to discover it myself, too. So I probably prevaricated for a while, pretending to tie my shoelace, check the timetable I always carry for such moments – yes, such a challenge *was scheduled but they are never usually on time – and enquired of one, whether we could have met before, at such-and-such a conference or interview. After a bit of this, the atmosphere changed. I could teleport, or I could try and cooperate, as we all wanted. Me, I said. I think it's gone astray.

mowk wrote on Oct 3rd 2001, 00:20:01 about

me

Rating: 7 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

Me I Myself am the only me I know. You are always you but only I am me

Groggy groove wrote on Apr 11th 2000, 21:32:18 about

me

Rating: 2 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

When I wrote of the women in their dancec and wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.

There is no mountain, there is no god, there is no memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.

No more masks! No more mythologies!

Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.

Jay wrote on Feb 16th 2001, 21:57:40 about

me

Rating: 11 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

I am, therefore I am. Me Myself and I.

little indian wrote on Apr 16th 2000, 21:12:12 about

me

Rating: 1 point(s) | Read and rate text individually

The dance stops. The men walk back to the walls, and talk in low tones or with their hands. There is little conversation, yet everyone seems to be sharing some secret. A woman looks at a small boy wandering away, and he comes back to her.
Strange, I think, and then remember. These people are not sharing words – they are sharing a mood. Everyone is happy. I am so used to white people that it seems strange so many people could be together, and because the night is beautiful outside, and the music is beautiful. I try hard to forget school and white people, and be one of these – my people. I try to forget everything but the night, and it is a part of me...
I look around the room. All the eyes are friendly; they all laugh. No one questions my being here. The drums begin to beat again, and I catch the invitation in the eyes of the old men. My feet begin to lift to the rhythm, and I look out beyond the walls into the night and see the lights. I am happy. It is beautiful. I am home.

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