i’ll be having surgery this thursday (or “going under the knife,” as steve from work puts it) for my knee, then.  it’s arthroscopic; i’ll be on crutches for a week and unable to work for two.  it shouldn’t be so bad; i’ll get loads of reading done and i’ll be able to lay around and watch old episodes of the simpsons in a guilty-conscience-free environment.  only my parents have seen this happen (and they’ve seen it four times), but i’m hilarious after they stab the needle into the back of my hand and drip the anesthesia in.  i make all the drug jokes and the hospital jokes and the money jokes and, for some reason, when they wheel me into the operating room and ask me to count backwards from ten, i always think about back to the future.  my drug-induced state is comedy gold; you only wish you could see me there, makeup-free, without my thirty-four bracelets, ten earrings, three necklaces, three rings, one nose ring, and one navel ring.  at my funniest, i am stripped of all adornments save for my tattoo and two-colored hair.