Selected Journal Entry (Oct. 6th, 2014)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a journal entry I've selected and decided to share with everyone. It is out of my own personal daily journal that i write in almost everyday. I thought it was interesting, hope you guys do as well. Thanks for reading!
-James Scott

Submitted: August 09, 2015

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Submitted: August 09, 2015

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Sense of smell? Sense when?

Selected journal entry October 6th, 2014

 

I have been suffering a head cold for about a week, give or take a day. I usually get head colds like this during the change of the summer to fall seasons, but in this case I choose to blame my mother for exposing me to-then blessing me with this particular one. My mother had contracted the same germs from my kids during a stay at her house. This is something that happens fairly often in my immediate family. One person will get sick and then it's only a matter of time before the domino effect starts and everyone is sick. Here I am roughly a week later, and I'm the last one left, still recovering that is.

I woke up this morning at-or around 5:30 A.M. to get ready for work. I'd slept in for thirty minutes past my usual wake up time. It'd been an extremely eventful weekend, and being sick the entire time had made it difficult to breathe whilst attempting to sleep.

Sleep came in short naps, here and there throughout the weekend. So when then this morning rolled around as early as it usually does, I was still enduring sleep deprivation. Sleep deprivation I can handle, no problem. But being not expressively but literally sick and tired while grinding out a ten hour work day seemed unattractive to me in sums of biblical grandiosity. There other levels of Hell I'd rather choose to suffer through if it meant not having to work the specific job I have, as sick as I've been. Of course if Hell is a real place, then maybe adapting a collective environment to each of its tenants based on their biggest fears and worst nightmares may very well be Hell's "thing". Order Hell's extended stay package and enjoy your eternity of suffering. I'm pretty sure every day would be a different level of suffering. Seven levels in seven days. Repeat. If I end up having to do some time there, I imagine my Mondays would appear to me as strenuous and non-stop manual labor, all while enduring the influenza virus combined with a nasty case of strep throat. No breaks aloud. Smoke'm if you've got'm.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Monday morning. This morning. All fears, anxieties and concerns I'd put myself through Sunday night rendered themselves unnecessary and quickly voided out. This morning I woke up feeling exhausted, sure- but realizing I was able to breathe through my nose and smell the dirty socks on my floor turned everything around for me. My body is Biodome and my head cold is Pauly Shore! We have reached eighty percent to homeostasis, people!

Fast forward an hour and a half later. I'm at work.

I makes a living working in a chicken hatchery belonging to a very large and well known company. This company is in the business of procuring poultry for the general consumer's consumption. Chickens need to be hatched before they can be raised, slaughtered, processed and sent to grocery stores and restaurants, right? Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Don't answer that, because you'd probably be wrong. Quite frankly, it doesn't even matter. We've long since passed the point in time when that might've even remotely mattered. In the world we live today, if you want a chicken, then one thing I can promise you to be true is that first you need an egg. Of course, there are other steps involved in the process, but fear not dear reader; I will not plague this entry with the painfully "interesting" how-to's involved in procuring a chicken. If you're dying to know then you're better off just to go ahead and die, or if that seems too permanent then just waste your time with something else.

You may be wondering what the point of this information is, or where this is going. The point hasn't been reached yet, but the part where you can see where this is all going starts here.

I can finally breath again, and being able to do so felt like the greatest thing that could ever have happened to me while diving into my work week. Also on a side note, know this; my entire life is plagued with badly hidden irony. Irony just subtle enough to not be noticed by anyone besides me, though enough of it to completely ruin my day, and in some cases my entire week.

I have taken the liberty of writing the next part of this entry metaphorically, sarcastically and way too over dramatic to add emphasis.

I had not quite reached the two hour mark into the joyous reunion of my sense smell and its other four sibling senses when Irony decided to crash the family reunion. Irony came up the metaphorical driveway, driving a van wielding a "Reality Check" decal. In the passenger seat of this metaphorical van sat who-or-whatever it is that is in charge of deciding who does or doesn't catch a break. This metaphorical decision maker doesn't usually ever throw this dog any bones, and decided that today we'd just stick with track record. This decision maker metaphorically stamps "No Mercy" on my head, and Irony went right to work. Irony worked fast, knowing I was to be working in extremely close proximity of thousands of eggs in a closet sized incubation room (the industry term for this room is a "setter") set to a dry ninety nine point five degrees Fahrenheit. Also knowing how much suffering I endure when one of my senses is hindered. Knowing me all too well does my nemesis called Irony. Irony sees an opportunity and makes a quick move, then vanishes into the shadows to watch the chess move capitalize into my misfortune.

My ironic tragedy came in the form of an egg. A single egg among several thousands of other eggs. All of the eggs around me were to be considered healthy and thriving. There is no protocol, work assignment, or so much as a sign on a wall anywhere stating any sort of concern about checking every so often for rotting eggs. Unnecessary- O.K., I'll accept that. I refuse however, to accept a deeming of unnecessity in simply informing all persons concerned to remain vigilant and alert when in close proximity to incubating eggs. A rotting egg poses a very real threat of exploding. The dangers and safety liabilities should be very clear. When something breaks down, rots, renders or ferments, gasses are expelled. An egg shell is solid and provides no means of opportunity for these gasses to exhaust themselves. Think of a person who is for whatever reason, closed off in gastric areas. I understand that it is impossible to achieve survival in this state, but work with me here- this person can't burp or fart. Over time, the gasses that are procured naturally in humans during the digestive process start to build up in this unfortunate individual's body. Given a long enough time-line, wouldn't it be safe to assume the possibility that our sad little friend could be doomed to death by explosion of some kind? Or at the very least a massive internal rupture? Take this comparison with a grain of salt if you must, dramatics seem to run my mind like a chain gang.

These are the facts: I had been sick for almost a week, prior to today. During that week and amongst other things, I was rendered incapable of receiving air passage nasally, as well as the inability to smell anything. I woke up this morning with the very tools of comfort that have been formally stated. An estimated time believed to be close to, or around ninety minutes passes without issue. When the time believed to be around ninety minutes spans itself out is around the same time I prepare to bend down and pick up a large tray holding one hundred and thirty-two eggs. Right before I am even able to pose a decent grip on the tray of eggs that I am preparing to lift, represents the closest frame of time to where the irony and agony of my day began to ensue.

I needed to pull the tray from its assigned wrack and put it on a cart to be moved to a different location. The tray in question wasn't any more than half of the way pulled out of the wrack before a twitch in my arm sent a slight, accidental jostle of energy into the tray, which caused the tray to ensue an even slighter movement. An attenuating wave of movement weaker than anything you could think of that would normally fail to warrant any notice. Cause and effect. The straw that broke the camel's back. Insert any other cliché, if you must. We all know where this is going.

The explosion came from an egg that had just been exposed to my range of being hit, and hit I was. I'd estimate the explosion to have been eighteen inches away from my person, of course, this estimate doesn't include the arm I was using to pull the tray out of the wrack with. I was directly hit. The sound of the egg exploding was louder than you'd probably think. Almost resembling the sound of a toy cap gun for kids, except the decibel level of the exploding egg held superior in greater measurements of sound that anyone would find painfully obvious. A loud cracking POP! The shrapnel covered a portion of my torso and some of my right arm. I was impaled by a blast of mucus-covered shell fragments. I felt quite a few hit my face. The smell was the most intense fragrance I'd smelled in a very long time. This smell will forever be the defining trigger my brain uses to jumpstart the memory of this traumatic experience, forcing me to relive it. Foul doesn’t even vaguely begin to describe the smell. As a matter of, well...not fact but dramatic opinion I guess, I don't even think the power of description and all that is descriptive would be able to achieve justification in descriptively labeling something so unbelievably potent smelling. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe articulating a dynamic description is possible, and maybe I'm just being lazy. I'll leave this thought blank for your own interpretation to play with. Maybe lack of description adds emphasis to the reader's understanding of "overwhelming". Yeah, let's go with that. You can thank me later. The only thing that comes to mind when I try to compare the smell to something tangible is hot garbage dumpster juice. Yeah, hot garbage dumpster juice paired with what I'd imagine a nasty, wet passing of flatulence from a devout vegetarian would smell like. If that's a smell that you can grasp on to then by all means go with that. That one's on the house.

Out of this entire dramatically written ranting of my day, all I really aimed to get across was the excitement and frustration brought on by the loss and gain of my sense of smell. There exists a small number of people that understand certain things about me. This small number can be counted on one hand. One thing that these people understand about me is how important all five senses are to me. I understand that they are important to everyone, but I take it to a whole other level. I vocally make it clear on a regular basis how the five human senses dominate any and just about everything else I hold sacred in this life. Not only are they ranked in the top three on my list of enjoyments and passionately driven aspects as a person, but they hold a role in sums of statistical majority in driving my literary imagination.

Passion is the one word I’ve always felt comfortable using when someone asks me to define myself using a single word. My passion is fueled by a few different things, but two main ingredients dominate and overpower the entire recipe. Being overly sensitive and in tuned to my emotions, and knowing how to process them into my own articulate understanding is one major ingredient. The other is my general love for all five of my human senses. Since I started taking my writing seriously, there hasn’t been a single period of time, which I can isolate in my recollection, when I took any of the five senses for granted. I have always understood them to be the bread and butter to not only achieving happiness and satisfaction, but to just feel alive. For me personally, losing one these senses permanently would be infinitely tragic and devastating on suicidal levels. I hope this can give you a clear illustration of my frustration brought on by current events.

Smell is so unbelievably important and most people don’t even realize it. It operates most of your sense of taste, and plays a role in the sound of your own unique speaking voice. Auditorial Individualism is achieved by several other things of course, but we’re talking about smell here, so bear with me. Smell can adapt and be enhanced, but never altered. For example, drugs and alcohol never impair your sense of smell; that’s your impaired sense of judgment telling you that the milk in your refrigerator may be outdated and chunky, but this will not stop you from using it in your cereal. Your sense of smell will punish you in the morning after a long night of heavy drinking by getting together with your stomach and turning everything that you smell into a direct feeling of nausea. Smell is collectively and downright the strongest sense we poses that ties to memory. Even if the memory itself is forgotten, the smells and fragrances involved in the experience never seem to die with it. Smells tied to forgotten memories will usually trigger a feeling of déjà vu, or they will simply drive you crazy trying to locate the lacking memory belonging concomitant to the specific scent.

People take their sense of smell for granted. Well, not all people- I consider myself a person. Most people take their sense of smell for granted. Then they get a stuffy nose and can’t smell anything. May the gripe-fest ensue. While on the subject, why not grasp at other straws to add a little more whiney emphasis to their cause? Sympathy from others seems to be the main goal for these people, for some unknown reason. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t receive the memo stating that it is common knowledge to believe that sympathy cures the common cold, and to achieve said sympathy, one must throw a massive pity party. Maybe the memo also states that the invitations to your “Common Cold Pity Party” must be in the form of whiney complaining. All I see is poor execution, people. The constant bitching will not only fail to merit any sympathetic emotion from me, but will also make me wish upon whatever God(s) that you hold holey, that they may look down upon you and bless you with continuance in your oh-so tragic ailments. These people will brood over anything they can, including the inability to smell- Which will usually be followed up with a complaint on the issue of difficult breathing. Press any issue you want. It’s hard to breathe, you say? Then don’t. I’m not buying it, and I will spend the rest of my day trying to avoid you.

Most people are simple, and sometimes even stupid. Stupid is an extremely strong and dynamic word, and a lot goes along with its use. I don’t like to use the word “stupid” loosely, but let’s call a spade a spade. Stupidity is very real and should be touched on correctly, when needed. Most people are ignorant and fell entitled for no reason. Most people are preconditioned by multiple decades and entire generations of people before them, who never really understood how to achieve happiness naturally. These people settled on an overall delusional idea that happiness can be found in materials, greed and lust. The people following their ideas are the preconditioned, whom most of which continued the misunderstandings and delusions of the people before them. It seems to me, we exist in a society that makes thinking for yourself seem taboo and difference seem wrong, which is completely ass-backwards, in my humble opinion.

We as humans are programmed a little simpler than you’d think. Achieving happiness by our nature is easier than the media or your television makes it seem. Try taking some time out of every day to use, appreciate, and come as close to articulate understanding as you can with your human senses. Try to figure yourself out, or even rediscover yourself by seeking new insight from smells, sights, tastes, sounds, and physical feeling. See what it does collectively over a period of time. When you start to notice the purer, and more vivid sensations that accompany satisfaction is when you’ll know it’s working. That one’s on the house. You can thank me later.

 

-James Scott


© Copyright 2020 James Scott. All rights reserved.

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