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...Who remembers my enormous fit of trembling, weeping angst at the thought of Spike turning six years old? How I spent the entire week of his birthday bursting into tears every time I looked at him, oppressed and haunted and terrorised by the simple fact that he may not, after all, be as immortal as he thinks he is?
Guess what? He's not six. He was born in 2002; he's fucking well five.
You can tell I never evolved the right sort of brain to deal with linear time, can't you?
Guess what? He's not six. He was born in 2002; he's fucking well five.
You can tell I never evolved the right sort of brain to deal with linear time, can't you?
