I was about five years old and I was sitting at home with my marasmatic grandfather. He knows who was watching, because neither he nor I were adequate and intelligent. And then I felt the adrenaline in my blood and I took on the most extreme activity in the house - jumping from the back of the chair onto the sofa. The sofa was many times older than me, and even older than my grandfather – one of those Soviet sofas that were produced in the same factories as the tanks. The chair stood as a back to that monster, and right at the moment when I stumbled on it, using all my crazy climbing skills, my grandfather had to fold the couch.

I am already on my back.

The jump.

And I am welcomed in my arms by the subsoil of the couch and immediately stuck.

I scream, mostly out of fear, grandfather convulsively opens the fist of monstrous furniture, I fall out of there and run to the other end of the room, leaving a bloody mark.

A second later I realize that the knee was scattered - well so scattered, considerably, to the bone.

Well, humiliate us, the boys - raised for a couple of minutes for the shape, went into the mommy’s pharmacy, poured peroxide from the top, swallowed the cotton and wrapped everything to the cockroaches.

In the evening, my mom comes - all the houses of bloodshed, I, a spire of bloodshed, run out of the room to meet her. My mother was pale, but she didn’t look.

What happened, Seneca?

I hurt my knee!

Oh well show me.

I carefully pull my divine bandage of Scotch and Nihua, because the cotton has long since been filled with blood and has fallen, showing the look of a broken like Afghanistan after the bombing of the knee. A wave of horror runs through the face of the mother, but she holds on – not to scare the child. Slowly she takes me on her arms, puts me on the bed, calls an ambulance – and becomes faint.

So I got my first stupid injury and funny story.