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It was Christmas morning, 1994. I was sixteen, awkwardly caught between childhood excitement for presents and teenage pretensions of being “too cool” for family traditions. But when I unwrapped that distinctive rectangular box and saw the bold “III” on the cover (thanks to Square’s confusing US numbering system), all pretense vanished. I literally yelled loud enough that our dog Rusty started barking. My mom still brings this up at family gatherings—”Remember when Michael screamed over…
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