The End Period
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My knees. My knees simply will not heal. Firstly, they were broken. Rapped wickedly on their caps when a debt got out of my hands. The mechanism was shattered, and my calves swung loose like earrings for months. I stared at them nightly, the crater where my knees would be, the sinewy gore a fascination, a constant nightmare, an embarrassing malformation. Now shatter-proof plastic caps sit in their place, and a doctor recommended I travel only on my knees, as a way of training them, fast as possible, to be stronger, less prone to breakage. I've been walking this way for months, hobbling, slow and giving the appearance of penance, of pathetic pleading. It hasn't helped in the way I expected, at least not yet. But what's worse, I continue to borrow, and continue to find myself in debt. But now smaller debts, spread out among many people, so as to confuse, surprise, cloud the minds of my creditors. And my poor poor knees have been the victims in all this. They've been hyper-extended, ground with salt, the bones exposed on all sides. I even tried walking with my calves folded out in front for a month; November, the month of laughter I did not understand. I suppose I looked like a vaudevillian joke, or perhaps everyone was laughing at something unrelated to me. So if you see me, do not pity me, do not throw me change, do not take any notice, it's only required so that my knees will be good and strong one day, and a debt will not feel like a deal with the devil.