Call me Jonathan. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my pocket, and nothing particular to interest me in Mexico, I thought I would stop roaming about and return to the hellmouthy part of the world. It is a way I have of regulating my dorkiness and driving off that other guy. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever Andrew starts to bug the crap out of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically beating his head in with my magic bone- then, I account it high time to get to Sunnydale as soon as I can. This is my substitute for rifle and bullet. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the crypts. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the cemetary with me.
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