You may call me Igor

(Or, when the table tried to eat me.)

I so innocently plunked myself down into an open chair in the kitchen. It is time to combat my oft-opponents in yet another game of dice.

It starts out typically enough, a few rolls here, a busted turn there. I, of course, hit 950 and bust (one roll away from making it onto the scoreboard to even begin my swift attack).

Then I feel the restless urge to move my feet...cross my legs. Now, my parents decided to swap the table setup a while back and the chairs don't sit quite right.

I lift my leg to cross it and in the process - bam! My kneecap closes in on the brass end of the table. Pain shoots through my leg and I double over on the table.

It took me the rest of the game to be able to bend my leg again. I made it up the stairs eventually, but have this weird feeling in the side and back of my now slightly blue-ish knee...and referred pain up to my hip.

Starting tomorrow, you can call me Igor.  Igorita?

I don't promise to respond with "yes, master," though.