Eeks, how? Every season is brilliant in its own way. I suppose my least favorite would have to come from One to Three because of their unstylishness - I fancy Buffy as hyperreal despite its B-movie roots - the show’s charm doesn’t lie in its cinematography.
As stupid as it sounds, I suppose my least favorite season would be One. Although that makes no sense.
It’s still awesome though. A fantastic welcome to the Hellmouth. Just (in my opinion) not as strong as the others.
“Seven social sins: politics without principles, wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, knowledge without character, commerce without morality, science without humanity, and worship without sacrifice.”—महात्मा
I’m not really good with this Tumblr thing - I started blogging here because I wanted somewhere private to write, somewhere pretty.
So I don’t reblog very much, I don’t post a lot of pretty pictures (although maybe I should start doing both - that’s kind of the point of Tumblr, right?) but I do update and I do read and I do reply if you allow me. I like a lot as well. I’ve followed back, so let’s make this partnership mutually beneficial and post lots of fun flittery glittery hobnobby bits.
I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here I need to get out of here
I’m sure there will be a lot of Parkers and Warrens in response to this question, but they had some form of depth, and they definitely furthered the plot.
Also, I do have a soft spot for Parker, especially with his resemblance to Little Lion Man.
(Which further cements Anon as Riley. Wow, talk about wanker-y extended metaphors!)
I suppose my analyses of the whole Buffyverse tends to be more Doylist than Watsonian - but I’m anything but a purist when it comes to anything Whedonesque.
At any rate, my least male favorite character is most certainly not a ‘bad guy’ in the traditional sense. I’ve certainly never thought about this in depth, because males in Buffy seem to serve more as a foil to the strong female presences rather than standalone characters (with several notable exceptions such as Xander, although one could argue he is defined by all the women in the show - particularly Cordelia, Buffy, Willow, Dawn and Anya; having had a romantic relationship - or at least, nuances of - with all of them).
In fact, male characters in Buffy seem to be defined by the women, rather than individuals (which on one level is troubling but on another seems right). After all, Giles’ reason for existence, Spike’s, Riley’s - all revolve around the Slayer herself.
Which makes least favorite male character a bit of a toughie, especially as no-one even annoys me all that much. I could pick Caleb because he was mean to Xander, but that feels like cheating.
I suppose I’ll have to settle for the character whose only crime was being boring.
I summoned up all my hope and optimism and for a moment I had this ball of pure unadulterated faith and love and such joy, the belief that this was some sort of God-given gift, a blessing to make up for all the hardship and sorrow and pain and neglect.
I thought you’d wipe away my feelings of unworthiness. I thought you’d bring me hope.
Without you, I’d have never understood absolutely unconditional love.
I thought we could be everything. I thought we were compatible and beautiful and poetic and strong – and that we could fix each other’s hurt, slowly but surely.
I was wrong.
Especially about you and that’s the hardest part. I was wrong about your honor. Your kindness. Your strength. Your confidence. Your ability to love.
Sometimes it feels like people are just waiting for the pauses or hesitant silences so they can leap in with their own stories, their own pain.
Because why should anyone care about someone else’s life? It’s me. Me. Me. It’s all so selfish that it’s sickening. Sometimes unknowingly – which is worse because doesn’t that mean that we’re naturally horrible people?
I realized something today.
I never want to let a man into my head and my heart ever again.
I don’t trust – or can’t trust – enough to allow someone access to my stupid little hang-ups and secrets and issues. If only because I don’t think it’s worth the trouble. At fucking all.
I don’t long for romance. I’m perfectly fine being by myself. Adaptability is too often overlooked as a wonderful character trait by more abstracted ones such as the ability to open up emotionally or being loving.
I resent my brother so much sometimes – I don’t see why he’s nothing like me. I don’t understand it at all. I was so different at 12 – but I can’t begrudge him that.
And with the latest turn of events, I want to just. Disappear. Because on one hand, he’s grown up with what I only had to experience after about a decade. He’s never known anything else. I don’t know if that makes him more or less fucked up.
But on the other hand, he’s grown up with the love and affection and attention that I only had for about a decade.
… Typing that makes me feel selfish. Eight years is plenty. I should be happy for what I got.
I wanted so badly to write this properly, but I think I thought about it so much in the shower - the perfect words to use, precisely pinpointing my feelings - that I have nothing left.
I’ve not had something left for some time now.
It’s just. Hard, I think. And I hate feeling like I’m complaining. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to hold all of this together when I don’t even have the ability to hold me together. And on top of that, I don’t have the tools to do it because I’ve had to learn it all myself.
I’m grateful to say that so much of me is me. I refuse to grow up to be my mother. The cycle ends now. It stops here.
It’s all falling apart and I’m grasping on to things which are slipping away. I want to run, but she’s said (in such hate-filled tones) that I’m just the sort of daughter who would.
I don’t know if you’ll read this, but God… Twenty-eight years old! And so quickly, too.
It really doesn’t seem like all that long ago I rescued you from work (you made me wait an hour because your colleagues decided to surprise you with cake AS YOU LEFT) and whisked you off to KLCC Park.
And of course, the look on your face when I told you I was 17 - priceless.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be your girl, but it’s almost shocking how differently we grew - or rather, I grew. In a totally separate direction.
It’s a little sad I can’t be with you today, but thank you.
Thank you for taking care of me, for the kindness, for the logic and sensibility. Thank you even for your flaws, because without them I wouldn’t know more clearly what I was looking for in a lover. Thank you for being there, thank you for still being here. Thank you for irritating me, for aggravating me, for disrespecting my time. For being a totally adorable brat, stupid little cute face ishhh can die so comel.