When I was younger I read (I think it was) a Sweetvalley book, and one of the girls had broken her arm and was getting chocolate bars and the remote control and nice-ness in general from everyone.
In reality, when you're 19 and not 8, no one really gives a shit about your broken pinky toe. Let alone share their damn candy.
You get a little "awww! How did it happen?" but once you tell them you were running around the house (literally) at 3 AM like a moron the look of sympathy is replaced with the 'God, I knew you'd hurt yourself being yourself one day.' face.
In other words, laughter.
And mockery in general.
Drama drama drama.
And yet, for some bewildering reason...
I'm still in love with life.