The rock that sits in my stomach.

"Hi my name is Linda, and while she asks you questions, I am going to shave you!"

I should have known that this random sequence of words being uttered to me was the start of a really, really bad day.

Then again, that patch of hair on my right knee was really starting to bug me...

The worst part about getting surgery is the repetitive questions that are asked to you, mostly being, "So, Sean...what do you do? How did you do this?"

"Yeah, random nurse...sometimes I just plant awkwardly with my full body weight on my right leg to see how MUCH of my Meniscus I can tear at one time. I then repeat the process over and over, until I am lucky enough to see people like you who can ask me repetitive questions. My name is Sean, and tearing meniscuses is what I DO!"

Then I realized answering sarcastically to someone that is basically in charge of your life, while you are unconscious for the next 3 hours is probably not a great idea.

As annoying as some of these questions were, my favorite by far was, "What side are we operating on today?"

"Um...shouldn't you KNOW that? Pardon me for feeling a little un-easy...but you're getting paid for this. I think it's the least you can do to know the correct knee you are going to be cutting open."

Yeah, the side we are operating on today is GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.

After a brief tyraid involving me, the BearClaws robe that they make you wear, and some elderly people as casualties to my brief manic streak, peace was restored and they were able to operate on my RIGHT knee...which was also my correct one, thank allah.

Before that, the nurses made a comment on my resting heart-rate. It was 40, and basically what they said was if I were an elderley person, they would be fearing for my life. I couldn't tell if that meant I was in really good shape, or if that meant I was wearing adult diapers. Turns out it was a little bit of both. I guess it just DEPENDS. GET IT!?

Next, a very short man was my anasthesiologist, and the nurse kept dropping hints and jokes about our very apparent height differential.

"It's nice to have a TALL man around here for once," she would say, and jokingly punch him in the arm.

"Pardon him for being a little SHORT with you...he's just having a bad day."

"Hopefully this isn't a TALL order for you to administer drugs to this young man on such SHORT notice."

I decided now would be a good time to stop laughing, as I looked at this man and he appeared that he just wanted to absolutely tear the IV's out of my arm and challenge me to a right-legged-hopping contest that he would UNDOUBTEDLY win because his right leg is healthy and able, but he was obviously also a Leprechaun, and everyone knows leprechauns are excellent when it comes to jumping contests.

The rest of this story gets a little fuzzy because I was under the influence of anasthesia gases, which ALWAYS smells like a mix of carrots and Sprite. Don't believe me? TRY IT.

Anyway, the leprechaun man proceeded to ask me what side they are operating on, and I told him, "Hearts, Stars and Horseshoes, Clovers and Blue Moons, Pots of Gold and Rainbows..."

Instead of saying "And me Red Balloons," in his undoubtedly thick Irish accent, he instead looked at me, and gave me the finger.

That's the last thing I remember before I woke up in the recovery room, and the truth of that story is debatable but if you ask ANYONE who was there, I bet they will recall it just like I did, because anasthesia is awesome.

As awesome as anasthesia might be, knee surgery in itself is actually the OPPOSITE of awesome.

I never knew this before, but getting a knee surgery actually advances your age by at least 50 years. I went into the operating room as a 19 year old with a resting heart rate of 40, and I left as a 69 year old grumpy man who cant walk on his own or control his bowel movements.

It has now been about 60 hours since my surgery itself, and I have yet to have a successful bowel movement, and just about 20 minutes ago, my mother came into the room and uttered the most depressing phrase I have heard in a while.

"You get one yet?"

"No, Mom."

"Well...you want some prunes?"

"No, Mom. I ate 17 this morning."

"Well, do you want me to take you for a walk?"

Good. Now I was not only feeling like I was 70 years old, but I was also feeling like a DOG.

A DOG WHO CAN NOT SHIT.

After about 13 prunes, and a half-mile walk that took about 15 minutes, I still feel like all the food I have eaten in the past 2 days is sitting like a rock in my stomach. A rock that will eventually be pushed out in a very, very painful fashion. A rock that may or may not be being pushed out AS I WRITE THIS. MMMWAAHAHAHAHA.

Seriously though. That would be awesome. I am currently flipping back and forth between little rascals and Man v.s. Wild, I am feeling terribly intimidated by Alfalfa's masculinity and Bear Gryll's mobility and ability to survive through ANYTHING.

I would like to see how he would do nearing 72 hours without a bowel movement, and being force-fed prunes, and crutching for distances up to ONE HALF MILE. ON CRUTCHES!? You're right, he'd probably do fine. But I am taller than him, and my right knee has less hair on it than his.