Safe levels she tells herself at the neighborhood pharmacy. The blood pressure padding that has encapsulated her upper arm has told her so. 158 over 103. 142 over 99.
She hits the BEGIN button again and holds her breath, ~third time the charm~ next reading 135 over 88.
She hits the print out button to provide evidence to her doctor why she needs to up her dosage -or lower it-, but there's no paper in the machine, so she records the results with her own pen and paper, which she has frantically garnered from the innings of her fake designer purse. Frantic because there's no way in hell she's gonna' remember all those numbers by memory. Thank god she keeps Walmart receipts.
She nudges the
numbers here and there, so no need to be frantic. "Here you go Doc, I'm
just fine and maybe sometimes I'm not". I can't tell, those fucking
meter machines at the pharmacies. You know, are they real?
They never have paper in them and the arm bands are always sticky, candy covered by fucking kids who think they're amusement rides.
She has, in a bizarre sort of way, lowered her blood pressure without even knowing it.
They never have paper in them and the arm bands are always sticky, candy covered by fucking kids who think they're amusement rides.
She has, in a bizarre sort of way, lowered her blood pressure without even knowing it.
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