“It has the consistency of cottage cheese what the fuck.”
𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑, an offering of sorts. the contents of it are unknown & he's not one to do much explaining. it's consistency is certainly . . . concerning. however, he likes to think that he had made her a delicious drink ! he doesn't see the issue with it that she does. her harsh words made him recoil, pulling back the mug for a moment; the contents jiggled. his expression pulled into something of disappointment, his hard work going to waste. there was no way that he could necessarily force her to drink it, in fact - he wanted her to drink it out of her own volition ! no, he would not force it down her throat if she was so against it. he had simply made an attempt at being domestic for a change. it would seem, the coffee he had made - the milk was spoiled. that's what happened when you were in the house of someone deceased.
he wore an apron over the top of his clown costume, looking the part of a caring housewife. he couldn't very well cook without it. if she wouldn't accept the drink, who knows what she would think of the cooking. ART was no chef, he had never cooked for himself before. let alone, cooking for an audience who had tasted delicious foods. he had high standards to live up to. smacking the mug down on the table, he crosses his arms over his chest. don't drink it then.
