Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee
Oh, March 2009. Let it be shouted from the mountain tops - you did me no favors. My receding hairline is evidence of a chapter of very small scale disasters. Once again I grab for the quill to spew my venom into this atomic dud of a confession booth.
What's the reason for this outrage you ask. Like all other evils it was started by the combination of a few cold ones and that forbidden movement known as the river dance. Gallivanting around in the late hours I saw it fit to perform some non-rehearsed steps for some lady friends. That never leads to a good thing. My left knee or fucktard as I so cleverly have christened it gave into the immense pressure and proceeded to leave it's socket for greener pastures to the left of the knee area. As I felt gravity pull me down I gently pushed it back into place before spreading out on the asphalt begging for mercy AKA cursing my existence.
Being a jokester is a double edged sword. Too many times have I pulled off late night shenanigans for a quick laugh, too many times to be taken seriously when my body collapses for what seems like no reason. For a good five minutes I was known as the boy who cried knee. Blessed be the old girlfriend who finally took the helm and ushered me to the ER.
The fine staff in the emergency room gave me a bed to spread on as I called everyone in my phone list for sympathy and advice. As I was still pretty intoxicated I wasn't really grasping the damages yet. I was given crutches and a prescription for heavy painkillers. Pain is for pussies I thought. Que the morning after. I stood up and in awe witnessed that my leg looked like a mogwai that was fed after midnight. And man was it angry about that.
Click on the picture to view it in all it's glory
Behold. Beauty and the beast hath become one. If I was an Asian philosopher I would be known as Contusios (too much Wayne's World sorry).
The days passed. What seemed a colorful blur was the constant streaming of Attenborough's documentary The Life Of Mammals. Sometimes only animal imagery helps. I learned that the Duckbilled Platypus secretes milk through it's skin rather than having evolved teets. That information kept me sane under the heavy meds.
A week later the physiotherapy was on. A young lass told me I have three to six months to become a man again. She gave me old person exercises to regrow the muscles. My left leg had now shrunk to skeletal thickness, leaving it's healthy brother looking like a Carl Lewis thigh. Oh the obscure hotness.
Yesterday, three weeks after this I did an MR. It was a sci-fi odyssey, I was consumed by the loudest space age machine I've ever laid eyes on. It screamed at me for my bone breaking stunts as a last reminder to never do anything physically demanding ever again. As of today my leg has grown a wee bit, it is now that of an anorectic prostitute in severe need of shaving. Huzzah.
I will be sure to let the world (or the three readers of this blog) know of future progress. Toodels me loves!