I Was Told to Come Up With A Good Story For How I Hurt Myself, Other Than the Truth

"Kristin, what happened to your leg?" yet another person asks as I hobble slowly down the hallway. I stop with a sigh and turn to the person, ready to revel, once again, the tale of how my leg ended up in the Astro Boot.

"You see, what happened was:

I was walking home and decided to stop in the closest 7-11. More like I had to pee so badly that it was either stop at 7-11 or pee my pants, so I chose the former. Anyways, this 7-11 has the stupid rule that only customers can use the restroom, so I quickly grab a pack of donuts from the counter and waited in line, quite aware that I was bouncing up and down in place, trying to hold my pee in.
"Next!" the cashier said motioning to me. I rushed up and placed the donuts on the counter. As she scanned it, I pulled out my wallet and began counting the cash I had to spend. The cashier popped a bubble and counted my money slowly. I tapped my foot, burning off the energy I otherwise would have used to yell at the lady, praying she would notice and speed up. Unfortunately she didn't have the chance to notice.
"Empty the cashier into this bag or the girl gets it!" someone yelled as they put their hands over my mouth and a gun to my head. The bag was handed over and the cashier began to frantically stuff the cash into it. At this point I was freaked and still really had to go to the bathroom, like super bad. So I kicked the guy where it counts and as he crouched in pain I pushed him back towards the ground and ran. The stupid thing was that I was still focused on going to the bathroom, so I was running there rather than to the door. But the guy grabbed my leg and I fell flat to my face. Fortunately there was some guy hiding in the back and was calling the police, so they bust in the door just in time to see me fall. So once they got the guys arrested, I finally got to go to the bathroom, however I limped my way there.

And that is how I hurt my leg."

"Is that seriously what happened?" the person asked, gasping as I spun my tale.

"No you idiot, I hurt my foot bowling," I said, my words full of venom.

"So what's the real story..."

I'm on Vicodin, So Don't Worry if this Doesn't Make Sense

I am an ultra clutz, so big a clutz that I tore my ligament bowling. I ride the elevator in school and believe it stinks. I call my walking boot my astro boot and I am currently looking for flame stickers to put on it ('cause I'm taking vicodin like House use to and he had that cane with flames). I am currently working on my senior project to write a book, and when I say currently I mean I'm steadily working on it now. I have found a way to publish for free. I don't think I get particularily loopy off vicodin. I don't like having to sit through a lecture about how my education is my responability and how the whole class has droped their grades when I got an A on the class. I love how I get more work done for my Connections class outside of class rather than inside. I miss the stereotype of passing notes in school. I almost want to go to a private school for the uniform. I'm a sucker for romance. I love the look on people's face when I say I hurt my leg bowling. I like to play with my hair all the time, and currently want to change it somehow. I cried for my schools golden boys because their mom just recently died of breast cancer, and even though I only know the guys a little, my heart goes out to them. I don't think American Idol contestants should sing The Beatles. It's amazing how tainted a story can be based on who's telling it. I think I'm running out of things to say in this style.