Media is Terror/Struggle Harder


I woke up two days before the Terror Attacks in Boston and my life was changed…

Babe, I said, I love you, how are you doing?  It was 5 in the morning and I had to work at 10.  I am not happy with you at all right now, she replied as she turned away from where I lie.  I took note of the dark room, the early hour, and the severely drunken state I was in.

Immediately, I shot up out of bed, located my pants, pulled them up, ran to the basement, located my bike, gave a sigh of relief, and walked back to the bed.

Barefooted and cold I walked as pieces of dirt and rock stuck to the bottoms of my exposed feet.  On the way back I noticed my elbow was skinned bloody in three different spots and very sore, my kneecap was likewise the same.  A red, dried, substance clung to the fabric of my clothing and to the perimeter skin of the wound, at the same time running liquid seeped through the split of flesh and out trailing down my limbs.

I came back to my girl’s apartment where she explained what she walked into after 15 hours of work, at 2 am in the morning:  The cat was locked in the hallway-scared half to death, the radio and lights were on, the window was wide open, and the apartment was freezing.

She went on, as she stepped into the kitchen she noticed spaghetti spilt over everything.  Spaghetti Circus, I guess.  Finger painting the floor, I guess.  I lie in the bed not moving, passed out, or sound asleep.  She said she tried to wake me with little success numerous times.  I mumbled and pointed and rolled over in my “manties”, taking up much space and testing patience.

As I looked down I took account of my situation.  There was a hole in my pants.  My bike was standing downstairs with bent bars and new scrapes; the latter was same for my body.  The clock said that I was going to be late for work if I didn’t leave.

After apologizing profusely I walked to work, alone and hurting. My elbow and knee alerted me with sharp bursts of pain at every step, I walked.  I thought of the martinis (all 8, plus the other drinks, all free), I thought of the vodka dragon-breath, I couldn’t think of the future because I didn’t know if I was going to make it or not.  I kept walking.  I was paying for last night now.

This was the beginning of the day. Imagine how the rest of it went.  All is well that ends well, but they don’t mention the beginning.

Here is a recap:  I was the only person to show up at their scheduled time to work, I thought I was going to die (throughout most of my shift), I hit my injured elbow and kneecap on the ice maker causing extreme pain (at least 3 times), I had to make a phone call for someone who couldn’t make a phone call herself (even though she was completely capable) because she was too busy lounging while I attempted to opened up shop, my manager yelled at me for trivial things, her husband starred me down as if he were about to hit me, and I thought about how dark the skies were outside.

An aside:  I know for a fact it was my own fault, feeling like shit and all.  My fault and Yelp’s…  The Elite Writers Party made me do it.  And this is why I avoid the hard stuff.

A couple of days later I found myself on an old train bridge near Nicollet Island.  This is where I like to gather my thoughts, write poetry, fuck, start fires, and drink beers.

I walked up and noticed a strange figure, a girl.  I followed her to the middle of the tracks right above the flooded Mississippi and I said hey!  She turned around, I introduced myself, she introduced herself, I offered her a beer, and we started talking.

I was about to have a deep conversation about train travel, some cigarettes, Portland, The Homeless, and social economic responsibility.  Bridges are the new community centers of the world.  I sat in wait talking while S. biked over to the #apt meeting locale.

Words went like this:

We are, as individuals, more concerned about sensationalism and glorifying terrorism, actually we are more concerned about Wi-Fi names than we are about reading actual books, or being secure with mediocrity and what other people deem as successful, than we are about believing in what we feel is right.

We are more concerned about what others think and less about what we are passionate about as a whole, or what we actually know.

We sit upset about how the cable doesn’t come in clear enough while we attempt to watch recaps of the Boston Marathon Explosions, Judge Judy, or Jerry Springer, and after all that, who cares about reading, about Gay Marriage, or about Gun Regulations when people are losing limbs in bomb blasts on the East Coast?

Who cares when you have so many likes on Facebook, or followers on Twitter, or hits on your blog, or other more important shit going on?

And then S. showed up and the vagrant left.

Everyone hates reading everything everywhere right now always anyway, so it doesn’t matter.  Every one loves being slaves at their shit job.  Why do you think individuals do certain things and avoid other things?  Why Big Pharm and lack of exercise?  I used to go to a therapist and then I realized it was bullshit, why?

They made too much money off of my problems; I saw a judge, a jury, a police officer, a social worker, an addiction specialist, a therapist, a psychiatrist, a psychologist (who couldn’t prescribe me the good stuff), a doctor, a urine analysis specialist, a receptionist, a secretary, a pharmacist, and that was just in the morning.

They all believed so many different fabricated stories, but they told me the same thing:  You need to come back, you need to keep taking your meds, and you need to come back.  I felt tuned out and dialed into complacency.

We will make you better, they said.  As if they had all of the answers, plain and simple.  They would tell me them next time, schedule another appointment.  Prescription drugs were fun when I just wanted to fit in and not care about anything.

I had to quit.

I drove to work and school falling asleep behind the wheel, most times, waking up just as I was driving off the side of the road, almost always near water or a schoolyard.  They never spoke of these side effects in the commercials.

My waking life was a blur; my dreams were my reality.  Then, I threw away the bottles and dealt with the severe headaches, which are attributed to withdrawal from Prozac, Zoloft, Ambien, Effexor, and Inderal at the same time.

I felt better a month later and started writing.  I haven’t stopped.

I gestured with my hands as I spoke.

I expressed how I literally picked up every penny I found on the ground because I needed good luck or I will succumb to something so vaguely and insanely scary that it would be almost impossible for me to describe:  myself.

This long conversation on an abandoned train bridge with a vagrant and then S. led to a conversation about outliers of capitalism, how the dollar is just debt, and how everyone can just forget about getting rich and being contently set.  That is set in stone.

We sat until the sun went down, only standing to have drags from our cigarettes.  We walked to the tracks and skipped rocks, we didn’t know who owned the geology we threw, but the tracks clearly said:  No Trespassing.

We drank from aluminum cans and bottle, crushing some and smashing the others on the bridge’s frame midway across the river below.

What is littering anyway?

We were talking outliers.  Train hopping, living in Portland, catching trains on the fly, which could result in losing an arm or a leg.  She said you would die in the train yard almost always within the hour after losing an arm.  I was like, oh damn!  That’s got to be a lot of blood.  I thought of my elbow and kneecap.

The moon was up and waxing as the cold wind hit our exposed skin.  The darkness came in full force.  Looking down one could see the glow of the moon and the shadow of the bridge in the water.  What was beyond that was a mystery, maybe a black hole, maybe a body.  Two raccoons traveled the wood planks of the tracks and onto an extended tree limb in search of food.  Our bikes lay in the distance.  I threw a Baby Ruth candy bar at where they were searching.  They scampered away in the other direction.  They were so close to successfully finding a meal.  I imagine the long night ahead of them.


You can do anything you want to do if you do it.  If you don’t want to do it don’t do it.  I guess everyone around me has said fuck accountability lately, at work especially, anyway.

Read a book.  There is a university of vast knowledge called the library, free to all, this establishment exists in your town and is open most days of the week.  There are numerous free clinics and food shelves everywhere.  Find them.

My companion said we are smarter than most, we understand this.  I agreed; however, yet, who is that ill-fated, to go on a social media site rather than a job search site while starving, or living off of food stamps, or complaining about the lifestyle they live?  You got to be insane.  Wants and needs.

The struggle is where the creativity and genius come from.  Some of the most progressive and innovative ideas came from a struggle.  Look at 50 Cent.

Get off the couch, off of food stamps, abandon government and terrorism, focus on you and being the best you can be.

But you won’t.  I know you won’t.  You think you can’t, and if you think you can’t I know you won’t.

Besides this isn’t fact, nothing is 100 percent ever.  That is a fact.


A game glowed light in the distance, fireworks exploded, no one died. The home team won.  We sat on a bridge in the distant dark conversing on politics, money, and the poor.  I don’t think I could care less.  Then again, I am not at work, so maybe I could.

The End.

Disclaimer:  This is not factual.  Everything you have read in this post is false.  Do not take any of these ideas literally, or even think about them, ever.  Just keep doing what you do and forget about it.  Mediocrity is expected.

Thank you.  Have a good day.


And Then:

Dan was like, why did you post your real address online?  He told me I was insane for posting about the government and anything involving fear in relation to media.  I told him it didn’t matter.  No one cares about what I say, I am unimportant; my words don’t reach a mass audience.  I have no political agenda.  Two days later I was in handcuffs staring at a white wall while sitting on a hard bench in some cold room somewhere.  Two days before a knock came on my door and I semi-opened it.  Bam!  I was on the ground and I woke up in this place.

I no longer live at my mailing address for fear of anything like that happening again.  No longer will I believe I am safe with those in charge in charge.  They said I said too much, I said they didn’t say enough, and they didn’t believe what they were saying.  It was a scam.  Or rather, they didn’t have enough truth in their message.

For two days now, I have sat in an undisclosed location, waiting, wondering.  The sun comes through the window in the morning and at dusk.  I write to you.  Please help.


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks:
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One Response to Media is Terror/Struggle Harder

  1. Valerie says:

    Terry, you are awesome.

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