something about smells in The eye of every storm

I’ve made a decision today to stop using Social Media. I like how I even capitalize it; its some form of proper noun in this day in age. It’s more than an event, an experience. It’s a religion. So I’m deleting my Facebook. Most people assumed I was depressed (I am), suicidal (I am not), angry at them personally (which is ridiculously selfish and a perfect illustration of humanity’s current state). I’ve been in a strange place. This sounds so fucking stupid but on Facebook, I created a fake persona, using my real life. I was funny. I was out-going. I made great jokes. They were Stand Up Comedy HBO Special worthy commentaries on current events, a talent I had no idea I possessed until a couple of years ago.

I’m not a funny guy. Those of you that read me on Open Diary for 16 years know that. It was great fun at first, and I loved the attention, etc. However, eventually, it became a form of entertainment for so many people. I don’t want to entertain people. It puts so much pressure on me. I spent so much time worrying about clever jokes to come up with based on Donalds Trumps fucking whatever, or clever jabs at ironically rich, yet subtly idiotic sports stars, the fun diminished. My interactions with my “friends” felt so fake. They didn’t know me. They knew this version of me that is entertaining them.

Regardless. I wasn’t myself.

This is so fucking stupid to even admit. Whatever.

I started believing i was that person. I started believing I was Jonathyn Reames, an amazing explorer, adventurer, commentary specialist on all this is current, humorist, activist....etc.

I am not.

I want to start living again, without the pressure of sharing. It’s no one’s fucking business where I vacation. The pictures I take of my family are for me to enjoy, or family/friends if i chose to mail them real copies. I was seeking some stupid elusive form of validation that meant exactly two fucks given by a homeless person in line for a closed shelter.

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Work is stressful. I work crazy shifts. Some are from 0600-1400. Others are from 2200-0600. Most are from 1400-2200. More often than not, I work more 1400-0600 shifts than I should. My sleep schedule is not only fucked, its practically non-existent. The stress of my job, dealing with pilots, all of which are A-type personalities that have spent great amounts of money in life to learn a trade to systematically avoid applying the lessons learned wears down my spirit. They have a union and rules, and they have Chief Pilots (who can override us) that are also pilots, and then the fucking Vice President of Flight Operations is also a Pilot, so we’re in this fuck-all state of: “Do your job, cover these 3598 flights a day, but don’t inconvenience a single soul.”

I went to my doctor with my sleep issues. He literally told me that my circadian rhythm is beyond repair with my profession. He asked why I couldn’t sleep, and I told him the truth; that I was so absolutely pissed off and fuming after every single shift that it takes nearly an entire bottle of Wild Turkey 81 and a bunch of shitty stand up specials on Comedy Central to relax me enough to sleep for maybe three to four hours.

He gave me Klonopin. It’s great. I love it. My Zero-Fucks-Given factor has diminished to zero. I do my job, i do it well, I make the daily puzzle for Major Airline work. But I still don’t sleep. So he gave me Trazadone. This is attempt number 3: Ambien made me do crazy shit in my sleep, Lunesta makes me hallucinate and then wake dream, but never sleep, and now Trazadone makes me feel like I’m dying. My body is so heavy, and I feel my mind slipping away, literally. My thoughts slow down to the point where they don’t interact, and i enter a state of sleep that induces lucid dreaming, which makes me wake up exhausted.

Anyway.

I’m getting married. Thats cool. I really love Katrina.

Also we are moving to a new rental house. It’s 2345 sq feet. It has a detached three car garage with a mother-in-law suite. It comes with a pool table. This is quickly going to become Jon’s music room. There’s a producing peach tree in the back yard.

I hate it.

It’s in this town called Farmers Branch. I’ve lived Downtown in The City for four years. I feel like I’m moving to Saskatchewan. I’ve never been there, but I can’t imagine a lot going on there. No offense if you’re Saskatchwaneese?

But Katrina wants it. It’s $1800/month and she doesn’t have a job and she wants to get married in April and so I have to pay $15-$17K for this wedding thing and also now buy a car because public trains don’t serve this place and etc. She thinks I’m managing this stress.

I am not.

Nope.

Not one bit.

I smell random things now too. Mostly baked goods. They don’t exist, but its sweet, like brownies or sugar cookies. Last night, I sensed a presence following me home from the bus to my house and even heard twigs cracking directly behind me, but there was no one. I’m like Kevin Bacon and Keifer Sutherland in Flatliners. You’ll probably have to google that one.