I am currently recovering from a knee reconstruction. Wooo!
You ever had one? Do it! It’s fucking horrible. I stay inside all day, I can’t go into water, it’s a mission to go anywhere and my friends steal my crutches off me all the time and leave me stuck in various cafes, pubs and airports.
There are heaps of shit things that come with injury, like pain and hospital food, and pain, and pain. But being injured is a blast. Jump off a building today. Trust me.
I haven’t seen the clock before 10am in weeks. My alarm clock has dust all over it ’cause I ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, so why drag myself out of the fart sack at 7 only to slump back into dreamland on the couch 10 minutes later? I’ve never spent so much time in my bedroom in my life and there are so many things to do in there. Like sleep and wank and watch Wayne’s World five times a day. Party on, Garth.
Everyone wants to drink beer with me
I receive daily messages and emails re my injured knee and every one of them ends in “let’s catch up for a beer”. I’ve been consistently drunk on my friends’ sympathy and generosity, partly because I can’t carry anything back from the bar ’cause then I wouldn’t be able to walk, and partly because my knee brace is so enormous and forebidding that it takes me 45 minutes to get out of a chair and people feel sorry for me. This ends with me remaining in my seat and being fed Carlton Draught like it’s on a drip-feed and me ending up fucking pole-axed on the regular. Cheers as, friends.
Wearing the same clothes all the time
I can’t shower. Or do anything. So I wear the same thing every day. It’s mad. I have a jacket that I bought from some weird hippy stall at Falls Festival in Lorne a couple years back while stoned out of my mind and the thing hasn’t left my shoulders since I got wheel-chaired out of hospital with too much Endone in me to know what day it was. It’s red. And green. And yellow. And purple. And every other colour you can imagine, with patches and random stitch lining patterns covering the entire thing. There’s an upside-down face on the front left panel that was definitely drawn on with a permanent texta, and the hood on it features a tail that hangs halfway down my back like a retarded rainbow dementor’s cloak. It is completely inappropriate for anything. I wear it everywhere.
When I was in hospital, one of my nurses looked like this English girl I met in Brazil a couple months ago. Tash was a medical student who smoked cigarettes and bagged out my friends all the time and was drop-dead gorgeous. I was in love. I said to the nurse, “You look just like my friend from the UK.” She said, “Really?” and she really meant it. I know right! Everyone’s being really nice to me. I passed out instantly, and woke up to her wheeling out the door to my car. Dribbling. Hey Tash! And Tash look-a-like!
People drive me everywhere. It’s sick. And I always get the front seat. Every time. It’s never even a question. I feel like Moses parting the Red Sea, tossing my dodgy leg up on the dash before waving at old ladies and flipping off bus drivers all over town. Sometimes people drive me places just to drive me places: “Let’s go to Bondi; Jacko will like that.” It’s like I’m a senile disoriented pensioner being taken on daytrips around the city. It’s rad. Do you know how many good-looking girls are in Bondi?
Panadeine Forte. Endone. Yes.
Being completely aware of everything
I watched every ball of the cricket last weekend. Seriously. I didn’t miss a second and now I am totally qualified to pick the starting XI for Adelaide. (Not that it will matter, yikes!) Did you see that whack doco on SBS about all the cousins marrying and rooting in Australia? You know I did. Plus I’ve done every crossword in every paper, I’m really good at Sudoku all of a sudden, and I still have no idea what Kenken is. Fuck Kenken. – Jackson Barron
Image of the author’s dicky knee from his Facebook.