A pun or somesuch on my busted-ass leg

Day 8. Sorry for the lazy self-defeat inherent in the post title. I'm on an army of painkillers right now, as last night, while at a party, I leaned gently and casually against a table top, and wound up tumbling to the floor. You see, my kneecap (or "patella," as I now know to refer to it) went dislocated for no discernible reason, but badly enough to require a foamy, velcro-laden brace that keeps my leg at a perfectly (or not) straight trajectory. I am now an invalid, confined to the third floor of my house, finding new ways to use my crutches, and entertaining a battery of very welcome friends. (I thank you all. Do bring food.)

How does this remotely relate to this blog, i.e., my quitting smoking odyssey? Put simply: I have not craved one at all. And that's as baffling, really, as the injury itself.

Oh. If anyone has suggestions on how to wield the mighty crutch(es), please dish. Go upper body strength.