Buffy: I didn’t jump to conclusions. I took a small step, and conclusions there were.
Buffy: There’s no problem that cannot be solved by chocolate.
Willow: I think I’m gonna barf.
Buffy: Except that.
Buffy: Am I crazy?
Willow: Well, crazy is such a strong word.
Giles: Let’s not rule it out, though.
Faith: Every guy, from Manimal down to Mr. I-Love-The-English-Patient, has beast in him.
Xander: Who’s the little fear demon? Come on, who’s the little fear demon?
Giles: Don’t taunt the fear demon.
Xander: Why? Can he hurt me?
Giles: No, it’s just…tacky.
Giles: Yes, always behind on terms. I’m still trying not to refer to you lot as ‘bloody colonials.’
Spike: This is the crack team that foils my every plan? I am deeply shamed.
Xander: We’re right behind you, only further back.
Xander: Aren’t you supposed to be drinking tea, anyway?
Giles: Tea is soothing, I wish to be tense.
Xander: Okay, but you’re destroying a perfectly good cultural stereotype here.
Xander: I laugh in the face of danger. Then I hide until it goes away.
Vampire: Does this sweater make me look fat?
Sunday: No. The fact that you’re fat makes you look fat. That sweater just makes you look purple.
Willow: Goody! Research party!
Xander: Will, you need a life in the worst way.
Spike: Passions is on! Timmy’s down the bloody well, and if you make me miss it I’ll…
Giles: You’ll do what? Lick me to death?
Buffy: Spike, these are my friends. Besides, it’s kind of my job.
Spike: For now.
Buffy: What, you want me to stop working?
Spike: Let’s see. Do I want you to give up killing my friends? Yeah, I’ve given it some thought.
Xander: Well, not much goes on in a one-Starbucks town like Sunnydale.
Cordelia: So does looking at guns make you wanna have sex?
Xander: I’m 17. Looking at linoleum makes me wanna have sex.
Willow: He’s delirious. He thought I was Buffy.
Oz: You too, huh?
Principal Flutie: We all need help with our feelings. Otherwise, we bottle them up, and before you know it powerful laxatives are involved.
Giles: I’m not supposed to have a private life?
Buffy: No. Because you’re very, very old and it’s gross.
Xander: For I am Xander, Kind of Cretins, may all lesser Cretins bow before me.
Anya: You don’t need me. All you care about is lots of orgasms.
Xander: Okay, remember how we talked about private conversations? How they’re less private when they’re in front of my friends?
Spike: Oh, we’re not your friends; go on.
Spike: Sometimes I like to crumble the Weetabix in the blood. Gives it a little texture.
Giles: Since the picture you just painted means that I will never touch food of any kind again, you’ll just have to pick it up yourself.
Faith: You can’t trust guys.
Buffy: You can trust some guys. Really, I’ve read about them.
Xander: Well, ’cause you never know if a girl’s gonna say yes or if she’s gonna laugh in your face and pull out your still-beating heart and crush it into the ground with her heel.
Giles: There is a certain dramatic irony attached to all this. A synchronicity that borders on predestination, one might say.
Buffy: Fire bad. Tree pretty.