The Long Way Home

I'm a Buffy fan. Not a rabid Buffy fan, ya know, eat, drink, watch, read, post, make out with photo of Joss Whedon, rinse, repeat. But the kind who has watched every, single bloody episode at least once. The kind who searches out other Buffy fans, if not lazily, and talks about hot vampires and cool chicks over a cup of coffee, high school cafeteria lunch, or a piece of Thanksgiving pie expertly crafted by none other than Donnie who taught a college course devoted to the genre, clips from Buffy gracing, gracefully, the screens of his classroom.

I don't own the music, but I'd enjoy a copy of 'Once More, with Feeling' if someone burned it for me.

Having set forth that I'm not a rabid fan, it is with rabid-fan-like enthusiasm that I tell the internet how happy I am that season eight, as envisioned by JW, is here in comic book form. Buffy lives on. And on and on and on. There are slayers. And clones of slayers. Evil comic book universe characters that I think I'll love to hate. And there's something so seductive about it all. It's an escape that seems to exist even after I've shut the book, somehow unlike pushing the switch on a television. I find myself thinking about little details like hovering feet and a woman's face. I can go back to the book, with ease, flip to a page, call a friend. Wonder aloud, wonder to myself, this universe a salve, if briefly, for cold March winds and desires to drive, fly, run to warmer weathers.