Have you ever torn your kneecap outta place so hard that it looked like a piece of fruit hanging on the side of your leg? It’s a snapping, disgusting pain, one that turns a stomach and makes grown men weep.

Instinctively, I grabbed it and mashed it back into place as my horrified eyes gaped on.

It’s like Cane’s Anonymous in here, this clinic is teeming with geriatrics and septuagenarians, I feel like a fresh, newly conceived embryo limping into this waiting room, a callow little baby with a walking stick. Standing in line behind bright white sneakers and the stale air of deathbeds, khakis hiked just below big blu-blockers, my god, I can feel the Metamucil and Centrum flowing through their slow, tepid, trembling blood.

My knee has been blown out for nearly 4 weeks, my home incarceration is tightening its fingers around me and this depression from immobility knows no bounds. Medicated and sofa ridden, this body is shriveling up like a skinny sack of raisins. Where are any of my friends?

The sweet and pure science of sports medicine and therapy is one I will subscribe to for the rest of my life because this injury has given me insight to the future and how visible signs of aging are found in your shoes, pants, diet and exercise.

Rarely is there a better way a Sunday could be spent.

Bruises from beatings that demand equal pleasure measure are only visible by rifling through the blur of the blackout from the night before.

Your flask is drawing dry and the mileage of this moment is stretching so far into the night that dawn is hunting you down like wild game.

The length of her desire is unmatched by any natural animal and the strength in the fishhook of her grasp is more than just words.

More than just spilled blood or undergarments torn down the southern swath of wild legs, these forbidden, fleeting seconds permeated with impropriety define all things terrible and assure that sometimes terror can be perfectly beautiful.

Looking around this den of old charm, antiquities and queries, this apartment of weird furniture and hanging frames, it seems that this place just may need a woman’s touch.

Welcome, new dog. New female dog. New 1-year-old little child of a dog, a sweet, big eyed, sleek lover, licker and nuzzler, this beautiful new animal into my home.

I’m unsure what MAO inhibitors are or what an SSRI is (they sound strange and dangerous, like weapons or motorcycles), and I have never taken psychotropic or psychiatric drugs on any sort of rigid schedule. Schedule III, however, I may have smashed through my body once or twice on occasion on a purely experimental or recreational pursuit.

I am seriously considering lying on a couch and confessing how the rain makes me unable to perform simple tasks like trimming my nails or getting out of bed. Because something inside me often tells me not to move too quickly as to not wake the monsters in my soul that enjoy emerging just when my strength wanes. Deep seeded dirty spirits whose cagey and unrelenting chatter turns my confidence into mashed potatoes and douses my fiery desire to create and forge love into a withered, Charlie Brown Christmas tree of forgettable worthlessness. They haunt my dreams and make sleep a terrible venture each and every night.

So Doc…the weather’s got me down. How’s about some magic beans? Seriously. These mad mood swings are damning me to chocolate gorging meltdowns and no amount of alcohol in my cabinet will restrain this evil, enveloping animal for long.