[Surely there's some things Papyrus has cooked that Sans wouldn't put in his mouth... at least, not more than a polite taste's worth. The culinary museum never would've accumulated its works of art, otherwise. (Thank goodness for Toriel intervening, recently.)]
OH. OKAY. SO THE "OVER" PART IS OVER.
[Grump, grump, all the way to where he can doublecheck his mailbox. Fuming all the while, a little, over having been pranked by a barely-awake Sans already. What a nostalgic mood whiplash.]
AND THE HOUSE NUMBER IS 105. I DON'T KNOW THE STREET... BUT IT MIGHT BE ON THE LICENSE. I'LL CHECK.
[He squints down the street in search of a street sign anyway, as looking for them is one of the fragments of how to drive that's sticking with him the hardest. And, isn't that funny, the guy over at the next mailbox kinda looks... familiar...?]
no subject
OH. OKAY. SO THE "OVER" PART IS OVER.
[Grump, grump, all the way to where he can doublecheck his mailbox. Fuming all the while, a little, over having been pranked by a barely-awake Sans already. What a nostalgic mood whiplash.]
AND THE HOUSE NUMBER IS 105. I DON'T KNOW THE STREET... BUT IT MIGHT BE ON THE LICENSE. I'LL CHECK.
[He squints down the street in search of a street sign anyway, as looking for them is one of the fragments of how to drive that's sticking with him the hardest. And, isn't that funny, the guy over at the next mailbox kinda looks... familiar...?]