Nope.

Today, Steven told me that they're all legitimate Shakespeare sonnets. That he personally picked out. And printed out. In one of those fonts that looks like handwriting.

I wasn't sure whether to be aghast or amused, so I laughed. "I figured those were just going to be scribbles on notebook paper," I said. Because, you know, I have this weird notebook fixation. And besides . . . I'm fresh out of high school. Everything is notebook paper.

"Notebook paper?" he said, clearly appalled. "What? No." The paper is all nice and stuff, you know, the linen-y kind . . . which he personally, shall we say, antiqued, to make it look all well-read and whatnot.

I had no idea what to say. And I still don't know what to make of that. That's kind of a lot of effort to put into something that gets a good ten seconds of face time, if that. And hell . . . nobody is even going to SEE the inside of the papers — it's not like anyone reads them or even opens them up. They're just sitting there, in a nice little stack, below the chess piece. (Clearly, Hamlet was not one for gift-giving . . . or else Ophelia just didn't feel like giving him all of his shit back at the time.) So . . . either I'm very low maintenance (read: lazy . . . and I am both, to be frank), or he's just trying way too hard. And damn, I thought I was thorough. Although I'm thorough in a different manner . . . I am quite literally the only one in the cast who knows all of their lines word-perfect . . . and I can count on one hand the number of times I've flubbed them. (It was never the lines that I had a problem with . . . it was, well, the blocking. You know what I mean.)

Awkward Cady feels awkward.