Something tells me that my world’s not actually been destroyed. Because my world? It’s pretty destructo-proof. We’ve proven that. A couple times, actually. We’re like cockroaches, cut off our heads and we come right back. And some letter saying that you saved me from the big bad--
[ a beat ] Hold on. Who are you supposed to be, anyway? You and your little letter with your little words. Because if you’re not Buffy then i’ve gotta wonder if you’re trying to be her and i’m not sure she’s ever been too big on imitation or flattery being the highest art of anything.
And anyway, if my world had been destroyed, you would’ve saved Buffy, not me. Probably Will, too. I’m not usually the guy that gets picked for these sort of things -- it’s like how I always picked last for dodgeball and put on the bench. I’d probably get picked last for who gets to live in the brand new world order, too.
So, uh, you maybe wanna tell me what’s actually going on? ‘Cause the fake letter really isn’t gonna cut it.