If you’re a reader of my blogs from back in the day, you’re familiar with my appearance on the CMT reality show, Cowboy U.

Anyway, I returned from that experience with a torn tendon on my right elbow. This was from being thrown off of a bull. Not a mechanical bull, mind you, but the genuine article with horns, testicles and a very negative attitude. Needless to say, the ride ended mere moments after it started and the climax was explosive. And by “explosive” I mean that my entire body flew off the animal and landed on my elbow which promptly exploded. You could hear the pop clear across the bull ring. It sucked. It swelled. It hurt like hell. And it required extensive surgery by the team over at UCLA medical. The cool thing was that everyone in on the operation was obsessed with maintaining the integrity of my tattoo. My surgery turned out to be a great success and you can barely see the scar unless I point it out. The spot where they cut me is sewn so expertly, and the skin lined up so perfectly, that there’s just a small line running through the flower on my elbow. Otherwise it looks exactly like it did originally. If I ever get a vasectomy, I’m definitely getting my taint tattooed first. It’s a virtual guarantee that they surgeons will be more careful with the cuts and stitches.

After the surgery, a friend took me back to my apartment where I decided I’d recover alone. I’m not really one of those “come take care of me” sick people. I prefer to do my suffering solo, sleep when I feel like it, and not be inundated with “do you need anything”s, every 5 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that I have plenty of friends who’d care for me if I was in need. It’s just that I don’t want them to. What it comes down to is that, when I’m sick, all I wanna do is scream, “Shut the fuck up I don’t feel good!” every time you offer to help. That’s not good for anybody. That said, it’s 2 days after the surgery and I’m home alone, in agonizing pain, unshaved, unshowered and drugged up. To top it all off, the surgery was on my right arm which is firmly ensconsed in a cast from wrist to armpit. I’m right handed. Allow me to point out a few things:

1) I use my right hand to write. I can’t write anything at all.

2) I am already an internet whore and I can’t type normally. Even if I were to type with one hand, it would be my right. So I’m forced to type single handedly with the wrong hand.

3) I masturbate righty. No, using my left hand does not feel like I’m “getting some strange.” It feels like I’m getting a handjob from an epileptic with arthritis. At this point there were a number of young ladies who would have kindly come over and taken care of me but A) See previous paragraph and B) See Number 4.

4) I wipe with my right hand. Remember, I’m drugged up, unshowered and now unable to wipe my ass normally. Do you see the problem? If not, try this out over the weekend. From now until Monday morning, don’t shower and wipe with the wrong hand. Let me know how that works out for you. Let me know if you feel sexy. Let me know if you feel like having someone go down on you.

5) There are a list of other things that are inconvenient to perform with out the use of one hand, particularly your “go to” hand. Some didn’t matter until I was able to rejoin the land of humans, but include important daily tasks like driving and applying hair product.

Oh, and let me mention that they told me that I couldn’t shower at all. I was to take baths for the 2 months I had the cast on. First of all, baths are for infant babies, invalids, and a couples’ uncomfortable attempts at romance where they light candles, stuff two people in a tub of water that’s built for one, individual dwarf, then awkwardly make out until the steam causes nausea and you’re forced to get out. Baths are not for grown ups. There is no good reason to sit in a vat of your own filth. Of course, you could shower first and THEN take a bath. But that’s just retarded. Like when you go to a public pool (for those of us who grew up going to public pools) and the sign says, “Please shower before entering pool”. Who ACTUALLY did that? You showered AFTER the pool. What would possess me to shower BEFORE getting into a giant urine pond with a bunch of dirty poor people? Nothing would. That’s the answer. Nothing.

I was spending my time laying on my sofa, mostly in dark silence. No radio, no tv, with nary a light on. The medication was making me tired but sleepless and I was hallucinating. Every time I started to doze off, I’d be jerked out of sleep by a panicked thought that someone was walking through my living room. The meds did not, however, have the added side effect of relieving pain. Vicodin is a joke. I could take 1,000 of those to no avail. They didn’t even make me feel loopy. Darvocet, for some reason, made me tired and delusional. Eventually, I gave up on the drugs altogether and just decided to just tough out the pain. But for the first few days I allowed myself to live in a hazy conciousness where I couldn’t think straight for 5 consecutive minutes. This is why I didn’t see the coming events coming.

I’d been meeting a lot of girls from the internet, primarily Myspace at this point. Many had been contacting me from all over the country and sending me well wishes. One girl in particular, from San Francisco, had my phone number and had called me to say “get well soon.” What I was unaware of at that time was that, between the two of us, I was not the most “unwell.”

Click Here to read the second half of Knock Knock. Who’s There? Crazy. Crazy Who?