Look, I know it’s been a crazy year. Principal Lear’s daughters divided up the soccer team. Trev won a scholarship for battle-rapping about flowers. Somebody called Otto “the Moor” and just, like, got away with it.
I’m not crazy—we are definitely in some kind of “accessible” Shakespeare movie. And I know I’m not crazy, because our three cackling school psychologists just told me so, in a riddle.
By the way, have you noticed how none of us have a prom date nailed down? Because of all of the recent confusion and high jinks? Which would’ve been easy to resolve via text message? Our love lives are so mixed up—Portia cross-dressed the other day, and not in the gender-fluid way we’d all be fine with. In, like, a scheme way.
Also, while I’m giving my fifth long speech of the day, let me apologize again for that time I waved around that fencing foil. I still don’t know why I kept calling it “my steel.” Or what a blood feud even is. Probably had too much to drink. House parties and intense conversations on old-fashioned balconies, am I right?