Enter The Retard, starring Bruised Knee

My knee hurts when I walk. This is why.

Sunday morning, during the Cameron Highlands trip, my mates and I were chilling by the balcony of our longhouse chalet. I seated myself on the balcony grill and faced inside, as intricately depicted in the diagram below:



My friend Vig was initially standing in front of me, whom I leaned on for support. The moment he moved away, I tried adjusting my bum on the rail and I'm not sure how it happened exactly, but I fell off (thankfully not backwards 4 metres down).

My left knee hit the wooden plank flooring of the balcony. My right leg shot through between the grill bars and the lower thigh smashed itself against the horizontal bottom bar. If it weren't for the pathetic circumstances, I could have been mistaken for practicing the elegant One-Legged King Pigeon Pose.

My left leg barely suffered, but my right leg was a goner. Fiona dribbled some tea tree oil on the bump, and I whimpered like a loser.

15 minutes later


6 hours later


12 hours later


36 hours later


The blood clot has grown to the size of my palm. My friend Vicky wants me to massage it so it will heal faster. But I'm secretly cherishing this while it lasts. It looks all speckled and colorful, like something taken from the Hubble Space Telescope. Whenever I feel gloomy, I just pull up my trouser leg and marvel at the sheer complexity of my new cosmic tattoo, and all my troubles melt away.

It deserves a name. I think I'll call it Wilfred.