You eye your birthday package again curiously. It's awfully tempting to peek inside, but you feel guilty about it for some reason, even though it's yours anyway.
You suppose a perusal of her bookshelf would be harmless enough. Just a bunch of books. The knowledge within is meant for everybody.
Dave pesters you with the message, "TG: afdsjjjjjjjjvfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff" which you decide not to bother dignifying with a whole pesterlog ordeal because it's probably just him being a truculent jackass again so screw him.