If you're reading this, I must be dead. I've brought you many, many hours of pleasure. Please, when you read this letter, know that your love has given me more joy than I can put on this paper. Remember, dear, sweet fans, I may not be here, but my perfect features and shiny hair will be a remote control away. Always.
OK....that sucks. That sucks harder than that bleach-queen behind the perfume counter in JC Penney's. Oh, sorry Angel, forgot bleach blondes hit your grr spot. She's already a great big female dog, I doubt turning her into a bloodsucker would do much damage. At least then she'd have a reason for such a pale complexion. By the way, I don't shop at JC Penney's, I research for future roles.
I'm not even sure how this became a letter to you. I try not to think about you. It isn't too easy. So here are my thoughts, written in the slim chance you care enough to find out I'm dead, much less read my writing.
I never wanted to write one of these things. But hey, I was sitting here, I've played 10 games of Solitaire and I started thinking about the fact that a demon could snap my neck tomorrow. Before bathing suit season and everything.
This whole situation, to re-use a vocabulary word Gunn and I actually agree on, sucks. Why did this happen to me? I go from the epitome of Sunnyhell coolness to part-time actress and full-time demon killer. Killer, not Slayer. Slayer is so overused.
This is my note, so I'm not going to go into how much I hated the endless Slayer (see what I mean about overused?) Sobfest and brave widdle Buffy learning her After-School Special lessons at the expense of everyone around her. Oh. I just did.
Anyway, Buffy saved people, sometimes, and that was cool. From far away. I had no problem leaving most of the nail-breaking to Miss Mope. Then I moved to LA and realized I'd rather break nails than break my jaw. Eww, that sounds disgusting.
I wanted to thank you for lifting me off the metaphorical casting couch, even if you shoved a phone in my hand and an uncomfortable chair over my butt.
You taught me a lot about myself. How to have friends. You taught me that it *does/ feel good to help people. Not as good as a shoe sale or a throng of admirers, but it's nice. Damn, the pen's almost gone, that was supposed to be a star, not a slash. Just pretend it's a star, OK?
Different pen now.
You also taught me not to rely on a fallen Angel. You never wanted to be a hero. You wanted to be long-suffering sighs guy. Now you're just long-suffering, do-nothing, brood-and-piss-all-over-your-friends guy.
You left the three of us to take care of the real victims. Migraines and vague visions weren't exactly topping my wish list, but I know now that life isn't all about me.
We have this office I picked out. Chase Investigations. That isn't the real name, but it will be after Wes or Gunn read this and get the guilts.
We save people. You know, those warm-blooded creatures you junked in favor of the psychotic bitches and Wolfram & Hart? How is that going? Slaughtered any busloads of nuns yet? Oh, that's right, you just watch while they're slaughtered.
I didn't want to sound so hateful, not in my grand sendoff. You bring out the best in me Angel. This started off as a farewell to fans I'll never have, now it's a rant to my undead ex-employer.
If you ever get sick of flirting with Angelus, maybe we can all be a dysfunctional family again. Maybe I'll burn this letter. I have no idea. Every day, it gets harder to believe that you're ever coming back. When the chips were down, you stole the last bag. Not too confidence-inspiring.
Sorry about the bitchy tone. I must be channeling Xander. Scary. When I see my friends stumbling in, getting blood all over the floor, I have a really hard time being composed girl.
My dream death would be a quick, painless, unnamed disease, surrounded by my studly, rich husband, weeping friends, and every award known to Hollywood. If you're reading this, I died some other way. I hope I died at a callback, or a sale, or even delivering a death blow to some nasty monster. Anything but falling in the bathtub. God, not falling in the bathtub, how humiliating. Nobody gets a Lifetime movie for taking a header against a spigot.
I can't wait to see Doyle again. Can you imagine those words coming out of my mouth a year and a half ago? I still dream about him. And it still hurts. Now I can punch him for giving me these stupid headaches, he can flirt until his tongue falls off, we can sit and talk. Really talk.
I hope he won't say anything about his death being meaningless. I have to tell you Angel, that same thought hasn't left my head since the night you fired us all. If he were here instead of you, if I had the choice, or another necklace...
Wow, hello bitterness. I'm glad I knew you Angel. I guess I'm glad you pink-slipped me, that way most of my memories are good. Angel caring. Angel laughing. Angel complaining because my coffee has all that grainy stuff floating around.
This is going in a drawer at home, I gave Dennis special instructions. Thanks for caring, however long ago that was. I'm done. And hey, if somebody at my funeral tries to play 'I Will Remember You', lock them up in a room with your two favorite vampires.
Fangs for the memories,
d e a d l e t t e r s h o m e