I have a bruise on my knee. I think I hit it on the wall the other night. That does not explain the bruise on my hand. Yes. On my hand. I have a bruise in the palm of my hand. And I cannot explain how it got there. Neither can I really see it. But it hurts. And only like a bruise.

So I am always hurting. But without that, I wouldn't be the little hypochondriac we all know and love.

Take this conversation from Monday:
Me: blah blah oh dad, my elbow hurts
Dad: Alright hypo we are done here
Me: But dad, i think I pinched a nerve or something
Dad: Okay I will talk to you later
Me: Wait, what about those snowboots

Saved the conversation at the last minute. I cannot talk about myself being sick or hurting too much. I think my parents get tired of it. But that is because they get the bulk of it. I mean, unless I am actually sick (ie at the health center getting lots of drug and disgusting nose sprays) then I do not really talk about my pain, only to my parents. They are going to miss it. Just you wait and see. Once our three times a day phone calls turn into once a week, they will miss it.