So, since my roomie finked on me yesterday morning, here's what happened:
Sunday evening I went out to the garage to shift some supplies into the house. Coming up the short, three-tread flight of steps from the back door into the kitchen, I had my arms full of a 12-pack of Diet Dew and a 20-lb sack of cat litter, while my hands were juggling my keychain and the door to the kitchen.
As the door swung open inwards, I took a bad step on the stairs and came down with my full weight on the brass-clad edge of the tile kitchen floor, right on my right kneecap. I let out a yell that would curl your hair, and promptly curled into a whimpering fetal ball on the kitchen floor, sure I'd split my kneecap.
Bobbi, probably worried she might be dealing with a rental vacancy to judge by the sound effects this pratfall generated, came running into the kitchen to see me writhing like an Italian soccer player on the tile. She immediately tried to get some ice on my knee. I was groaning "Shut the basement door!" through gritted teeth.
"Let's get some ice on that knee first," she replied, sensibly.
"The cats'll get into the basement!"
"I don't think we need to worry about the cats."
Good point. I'm sure that they had retreated to whatever extradimensional space it is cats go to when there's lots of thumping and banging and yelling and other various, sudden cat-startling noises.
Anyhow. I'm sure it's not broken, although I'm still favoring it a bit. I did make the mistake of kneeling on it for a fraction of a second while trying to put a new cover on the futon, but I was distracted from the pain by my head and back hitting the ceiling.
Like they say, that which does not kill us...