gtonizuka
Atlantean descendant
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2025
- Posts
- 21
- Reputation
- 29
I never thought my life would be destroyed by something so small, so subtle, so sinister.
The kneepill.
It started when I took it as a joke—some weird internet trend that promised “perfect knees.” I thought, why not? At worst, it’d do nothing. At best, maybe my knees would look more athletic, sharper, more… aesthetic.
But the pill lied.
Weeks later, my knees had transformed. They weren’t heroic or chiseled. They weren’t built for greatness. They were horrifying—wrinkled, bulbous, and misshapen, like two pale goblins fused to my legs. They looked like they had lived a hundred hard lives.
I kept them hidden under jeans, sweltering in the summer sun, pretending nothing had changed. But the day came when my luck ran out.
It was spirit week. Shorts Day. Everyone wore them. I thought: Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe no one will notice.
But the moment I walked into school, silence fell. Conversations froze. The squeak of sneakers stopped. Every head turned.
And then the whispers began.
“Ew… what is that?”
“Are those… knees?”
“They look like they’re frowning…”
The laughter followed. Cruel, endless laughter. Even the teachers looked away in disgust, like my knees had committed a crime. One girl gagged so hard she had to leave class. Another swore she saw my
By lunch, the cafeteria was roaring with chants:
“Knee-boy! Knee-boy!”
Someone snapped a photo and posted it online. By the end of the day, it had gone viral. My knees had become a meme.
That was the day my social life ended. The kneepill hadn’t given me perfect knees—it had cursed me. And no matter how much I hide them now, I can still feel them… judging me. Waiting for the next time I make the mistake of wearing shorts.
The kneepill.
It started when I took it as a joke—some weird internet trend that promised “perfect knees.” I thought, why not? At worst, it’d do nothing. At best, maybe my knees would look more athletic, sharper, more… aesthetic.
But the pill lied.
Weeks later, my knees had transformed. They weren’t heroic or chiseled. They weren’t built for greatness. They were horrifying—wrinkled, bulbous, and misshapen, like two pale goblins fused to my legs. They looked like they had lived a hundred hard lives.
I kept them hidden under jeans, sweltering in the summer sun, pretending nothing had changed. But the day came when my luck ran out.
It was spirit week. Shorts Day. Everyone wore them. I thought: Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe no one will notice.
But the moment I walked into school, silence fell. Conversations froze. The squeak of sneakers stopped. Every head turned.
And then the whispers began.
“Ew… what is that?”
“Are those… knees?”
“They look like they’re frowning…”
The laughter followed. Cruel, endless laughter. Even the teachers looked away in disgust, like my knees had committed a crime. One girl gagged so hard she had to leave class. Another swore she saw my
By lunch, the cafeteria was roaring with chants:
“Knee-boy! Knee-boy!”
Someone snapped a photo and posted it online. By the end of the day, it had gone viral. My knees had become a meme.
That was the day my social life ended. The kneepill hadn’t given me perfect knees—it had cursed me. And no matter how much I hide them now, I can still feel them… judging me. Waiting for the next time I make the mistake of wearing shorts.
