About a week and a half ago, I tripped walking out of my kitchen, and in an attempt to catch myself, I planted my fist firmly into a tile floor, breaking and bending the metacarpal below my right pinky. Being a bad mother &%#$er, I ignored it for a week, noticed new bruising after the Moose kicked it on Saturday, and then went to the doctor. Tomorrow I get it cast. What slays me is that like most things in real life, this is a lousy story. Adding insult to injury (literally) is that when I tell the story to people, they look at me as if this is the story I made up to cover the real story.
Attention world: if I make up a story to hide how I got an injury, that story will be filled with all the awesomeness I can pack into it, and will most likely involve ninjas, robots, terrorists and me saving some group of otherwise defenseless creatures.
No comments:
Post a Comment