Going to have some fun with 280, outside the whole quoting-Africa-by-Toto-nonstop thing
Seven years, Dawn. Working with the slayer. Seeing my friends get more and more powerful. A witch. A demon. Hell, I could fit Oz in my shaving kit, but come a full moon, he had a wolfy mojo not to be messed with. Powerful. All of them. And I'm the guy who fixes the windows.
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And, and Xander's crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she'll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why.
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You're right. We don't know how to fight it. We don't know when it'll come. We can't run, can't hide. Can't pretend it's not the end, 'cause it is. Something's always been there to try and destroy the world. We've beaten them back. But, we're not dealing with them anymore.
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It is the year of our lord two thousand and seventeen and Buffy is 20 years old this year and how have we not had a billion retrospectives on it, in all its deeply problematic and complicated glory.
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End of conversation
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