Who gives a shit?


          Each day that we wake we are given the opportunity to brush our teeth, comb our hair, wash our bodies- take showers, while checking our phones for notifications, and prepare for what befalls us.  We are given the opportunity to generally do things which are perceived as socially acceptable, things that have been done for years.  These socially acceptable things are finely attuned and have become routed into our daily lives.  I wonder do we actually speak true words, or do we just say what we have to- are told to say?  Have we ever actually lived outside of the social constructs of our civilization?  Was that thought dead hundreds of years ago and planted in my genes to reflect on it now by my severely late distant relative?  I have to wonder, why do we give a shit? 

          Is there a fear of appearing not to appear?  You’re only as relevant as the things around you. 

          It is easy to create an android self, unreal to our tangible urges and convictions; something fabricated, synthesized, and enacted to create a façade, something that others will like…  But is that us?  I want to go to heaven, but pre-marital sex is awesome.  I am animal; I should howl, fuck, eat, and bite, right?  Have you burped, farted, spit, bled, or cursed and felt hot eyes of disapproval move on you?  Yes.  Most people do these things, if not only in the privacy of their home, behind closed doors, but out in the general public unannounced.  Some even do these things in public.  Some people even poop in public; I’ve seen it around town, or the aftermath.  Now my stomach rumbles. 

          My mother told me to hold my tongue because it might get me into trouble.  I respect her.  So be it, I spoke my mind.  And it felt wonderful.  Maybe I enjoy the excitement of getting in trouble, or venting, or not holding in my opinion, actions.  Who cares?  Who really gives a shit?  I tell people what I think because I actually think that.  There is nothing to apologize for- nothing.  If someone is being a dick label them a dick.  If they love you they will forgive you. 

          I tell others to call in sick, to quit the jobs they hate, and to think differently, because you might die tomorrow, because people I respect once told me that same shit.  Say whatever you want to say, you are a brave and thoughtful person.  My father told me not to worry about death or plans, because he could walk across the street and die right here, right now- well not anymore.  I have taken that with me. 

          Is the reality so hard to see?  We all have double chins, drinking problems, beer bellies, errant hairs, torn jeans, repetitive fashion, pimps and blemishes.  Some people like to stick needles in their arms to feel better about their life as a whole- these “junk abusers” as my predecessors have coined.  Some people like to have lots of money because they lack morality and will stop at nothing to attain it.  Some people have fancy cars because possibly they have small penises.  I see legs exposed to the sun with words scrawled of raised flesh which scream cutter.  Does it seem as sexy now?  Is that sort of display a problem?  Why hide them?  No one cares. 

          Embracing our flaws makes us different, unique, and human.  Once I was running across the Stone Arch Bridge while listening to the Muse and I started crying for no reason, it burned.  I didn’t care.  I was a crybaby, but it didn’t matter.  Around campus a person can see mini-skirts, fake tans, breasts in push-up bras, bandanas, muscle T’s, sports apparel, and perfectly did hair, but is that exciting?  Does it matter?  I find it hard to take people seriously when their make-up appears better than their attitude.  Attitude is everything, and in a sense, one can’t fake that.  Attitude doesn’t give a shit.  Das ist ein Fakt.

          But what if your attitude is iconoclastic?  Should it give a shit too?

          If that be the case, hopefully they don’t treat you like they did in elementary school.  Sit in the corner!  You miss recess, and you don’t get to talk, or walk, or play.  Eat your Cheese Dunkers and shut it!  What you did is punishable by demerits!  That is an infraction!  At times kids had been so bad that they had to sit for two hours after school in a library and be subjected to a horrible old codger.  He is dead now- RIP, so that is payback for his ill mannerisms during detention. 

          Everyone has bad days and good days, but what is there to feel good or bad about?  I don’t think one moment has ever defined me as a person, good or bad, not even this moment.  Moments have stuck for years, but change is always in the air.  Nothing is really stagnant, not even ill will.  Is there a good or a bad, or is there a just is?  Life happens, it just is.  No one chose to be born, to be white, or pink, to be male or female, to be disemboweled, or a whimper, or to be drunk (well maybe not the last one). 

          I enjoy the idea of getting drunk, but I don’t like being drunk.  I enjoy the idea of being born, but I don’t wish to be born my whole life.  Some Christians want to be born again, but I find the act disgusting, painful, and abusive towards women.  Wasn’t your first birth traumatic enough?  I feel bad for your mother.  However, it would be an act where someone does something, which is.  The act of doing, the Funktionslust– the joy of doing is what moves and molds us.  So, I guess if one likes to be reborn they should be reborn all the time, immer.  My judgment is unimportant, and sedimented in bias language. 

          Doing without caring; everything is improvised, even this writing, this conversation, and this alarm-clock slap.  It was sort of not really maybe planned out, and it transpired- so there, now it is almost over.  Done.  It just is.   

          Most people are afraid to give speeches, public speaking, or to even present themselves as they are, but there is a need for that.  You must tell people what you feel, what you think, without being afraid.  Fear and excitement and anger are a person’s best friend, they motivate and create contrast.  Daily life can become humdrum and boring, make it a party; tell people to fuck off.  Do something outrageous, let people stare, you are in the exact spot you are in for a specific reason, and whether it is fate or coincidence it is happening. 

          At times I am terrified with what I might say because of social sanctions, stigmas attached, and mislabels, however, it is easy to be afraid of something you don’t understand.  Yet, maybe the thing you fear doesn’t understand you, so maybe it fears you just as much, or more.  See?  It just is.


          Life happens, alongside the social standards, the folds we crease, the hats we wear, with the judgments and fears we face.  I see people portrayed on Facebook (and other social media) as they would like to be seen, they give a shit.  They care about the amount of likes they will achieve, the positive feedback.  Yet, did they do anything new, different, transcendental, or did they just fill a part?  -A trivial marketing part, at that.  Let’s start to not giving a shit, because life just is.  Let’s have fun.  Who enjoys social norms anyway?  Normal is boring!  But normal is just a label, a metaphor signified by a sound (ah, the modern episteme; knowledge, language.).  Who gives a shit? 


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
This entry was posted in @sirterryscott, Essay, La Crescent, Midwest, Minneapolis, Prose, Twin Cities and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s