MLB players never know what day of the week it is (WaPo)

The doctor says I have imerologiophobia -- a fear of calendars. There are no support groups for it, or medications I can take. It's not covered by my health insurance, nor can I file for Workman's Compensation. Most dictionaries don't even list it. The only symptom is that I never want to know what day of the week it is, or month, or even year. I don't have any calendars in my house nor use any apps to check on the date. So, yes, I miss a lot of appointments and my friends have grown used to the idea that I never celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. And I go in to work every day; when the building is locked and deserted then I know it's the weekend or a holiday.
My mother wasn't frightened by a Franklin Covey Planner when she was carrying me or anything. I grew up in a normal household that worshiped calendars and clocks like deity. When I started working I always had an At-A-Glance Classic Monthly Desk Pad at my work station, which I filled in like a crossword puzzle. That was a long time ago. That was when people scribbled elaborate plans for a paperless society on stacks of yellow legal pads.
No, my so-called malady came on gradually. First I grew tired of carrying a small leather daily planner in my shirt pocket, so I began leaving it at home -- then finally tossed it into Lake Minnetonka during a fishing trip. It felt wonderful, soul-saving, to be rid of it. Then as the internet took over I deliberately held back on automatic notifications for work meetings and birthdays, anniversaries and doctor appointments. I was never important enough to have a secretary to schedule appointments for me and remind me of them. The days began to flow into each other like eggs into cream into sugar into a rich thick custard. 
The fact of the matter is that today I struggle against the labeling of my condition as a disease or a phobia or anything negative or debilitating. Instead I like to think of it as one of those Star Trek episodes where some poor schnook begins showing weird symptoms like glowing hair or sparks from his fingernails, and initially the crew all fear him but then it turns out he is just evolving into a being on a higher plane of existence and everyone rejoices and gets him a cake to wish him luck. 
I want people to understand I shun calendars, and am even violently opposed to them, not because of any internal flaw in my brain or body, but because calendars have become a symbol of oppression to me. I have broken my allegiance to them, and this has made me a pariah to some, and to some I am as foul as was Cain when he slew his brother Abel -- perverting the social contract to achieve my own selfish ends. 
But I'll show 'em; I'll show 'em all! You who read this manifesto will be fortunate enough to know that I have paid a coven of international hackers to scramble every single online calendar app in existence -- so that August now has only 29 days and Easter always falls on July 4th and every other year has become Leap Year. Plus I had the hackers add in an extra month -- called Felbish -- between February and March. 
The world will thank me for this one day . . . 

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An email response to this post from Mr. Nathan Draper, of Bangkok, Thailand:

"You ought to send a Homophones desktop calendar to Mr Noman Global. Might go viral!"