Xander. I was looking for something to eat under your mattress and I found this book. Apparently you wrote it. I read through it and you only mention me five times! It’s all about Buffy. Buffy-this, or Buffy-that, or how-I-hate-that-Angel-gentleman-for-liking-Buffy or why-is-Buffy-kissing-Spike? What about me? I want to be written about. And when I am written about, it’s almost always negative. “Gosh, that Anya sure is strange, to the point where that now obese man from star trek, which is a show I like more than Anya, seems to be in my mind.” You even seem to like that seemingly wretched Cornelius or whatever her name was more than me. You at least mention her. Hell, you mention her even at the same time that you mention, offhandedly might I add, that we had sex. “That strange Anya came around again and talked me into sex. I wonder if Cornelius is having sex with an ex-demon as well? I bet she’d rather be having sex with me. I know I don’t care about Anya, that’s for sure!” What is this, Xander? Obviously our multitudinous copulations mean nothing to you, so perhaps I just decided we don't get to copulate anymore, despite my bizarre obsession with your penis. I can survive without it, you know. Just watch.
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