Mabel immediately licks dorito dust from her fingers and then wipes them clean somewhere in the midst of her ruffle pile, and reaches properly up to take the little paper. In the past, she would have ripped it without even looking at it, and everyone would have had to deal with her frenetic cackling as she went rampaging around on the ceiling. Now, she sits and examines it properly, taking stock of whether the marks look more writerly or like one of Dipper's weird ghost sigils and tilting the paper back and forth to get an idea of how the ink reacts to the light.

"I gotta learn to make this sort of stuff," she says. Not in the way she might express a "need" to make this or that style of dress in such and such color, but in the same way she might say she had homework to do. "You guys can't be the only people who know how to do this around here."