I knew you were lying. Undead liar guy. Scenario: We raise Buffy from the grave. She tries to eat our brains. The brain is kept in a fear-induced, adrenaline-fueled overdrive state, like a problem you can’t solve. I suppose there is a sort of Machiavellian ingenuity to your transgression. It was supposed to confuse him, but it just made him peppy. We’ll have to call it early quantum state phenomenon. Only way to fit 5000 species of mammal on the same boat. Bunnies aren’t just cute like everybody supposes. The human mind is like Van Halen; if you just pull out one piece and keep replacing it, it just degenerates. I am never gonna see a merman, ever. And that’d be where you find stored such things as empathy, compassion, an aversion to disemboweling puppies.
Shh! No programs, don’t use that word. Just be Buffy. You can’t open the book of my life and jump in the middle. Eyeballs to entrails, my sweet. Everyone’s a hero in their own way, in their own not that heroic way.
Just once I would like to run into a cult of bunny worshippers. Ah, the pitter patter of tiny feet in huge combat boots. You can’t spend the rest of your life waiting for Xander to wake up and smell the hottie. It eats you, starting with your bottom. He’ll be an empty-headed robot wondering around Hollywood; he’ll be fine! You’re the Slayer, and we’re, like, the Slayerettes! I’m not planning on presiding over the end of Western Civilization