Every time you open and close around me, it sounds like someone’s biting into the apple I should have eaten instead of all those nachos I gorged on. Thanks to you, in a matter of seconds that handsome man in the white lab coat will know I’ve been lying about my dramatic breakup with the snack aisle at the grocery store. Velcro envelopes my arm as you squeeze the truth out of me. Man, oh, man—how I wish I could argue that your manometer is faulty like the one attached to your digital cousin, back home in my kitchen drawer. Your grip is tight like a cobra’s, and almost as bad as the scolding I’m in for when you expose me to that handsome Doc. Just a few puffs of air into your cuff is all it takes. And when you empty your bladder? I’m the one who looks like I’ve made a mess of myself—every time.
What Object am I describing?
**Random Writing Exercise I did a while back.