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Me and T.

Me and T. are upstairs, leg-pretezled, watching "Dark Side of the Oz," where I'd heard Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" supposedly synced up with "The Wizard of Oz." I'm sixteen, and T's eighteen, and just when Judy Garland falls off the fence and the crashes and synths of "On the Run" kick in, I glance over and see T is applying chapstick to herself after sighing and repeating ad nauseum how boring the whole thing was. Odd, I think. This isn't dry lips weather.

I take another look at the chapstick, and hold up. It's super glue. So as she's leaning towards me, I'm diving out of the way, but her lips manage to hit the back collar of my shirt, and I try to pull away, but it's too late. The shirt's stuck to her mouth. I wiggle out, put on another shirt, and offer to get her hot water, but she refuses, is running out the door, despite my pleas, jumps into her car, and drives home.

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