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Teeny’s standing arms akimbo now, giving Mr. Bigshot Jimmy McLean her eat-shit-and-die look, and he's putting out all kinda signals that say "I'm ignoring you."
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Then I heard it -- a sound like an oboe being strangled. Teeny was farting onto the cement stoop through her jeans, a tripple flutter blast.
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Half-pint Ball canning jars, each labeled in earnest capital letters, took up a whole wall of Teeny’s bedroom. Inside each jar was air she had collected from some place important to her life.
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