I've heard it said that your time at high school's supposed to be the best years of your life – the best years, or the worst. Well, my high school years sure as hell weren't the best years of my life. Those came a few years later, along with cool gadgets, a slightly less cool gang, and a whole lot of power.

Well. Not quite as much power as I'd have liked. But that doesn't really matter. It's quality for me, not quantity – except when it's the other way around.

They weren't the worst years of my life, either; not by a long shot. Those came a few years later too. But at least my high school years weren't the last years of my life, like they were for some kids I knew.

See, I matriculated with Sunnydale High. That was one literal hell of an experience.

Really, I'm only surprised that there weren't more of us in good old Sunnydung – more of us nerds, I mean; nerds, dorks, geeks, freaks, whatever you want to call us. It just seems somehow logical that we'd be the only people who cared enough to hang around some shithole with – horror of horrors – only one Starbucks and only one nightclub. Unfortunately enough, Sunnydale never was one for logic. As Hilton said, we are not alone. There were cheerleaders and jocks and junkies, oh my. But my "type" was there too – enough of us to feel a certain solidarity, but not quite enough to actually be there for each other.

There was good old Willow Burger, of course, although she ended up with that cheerleader who called herself the Slayer, which I think went to her head, resulting, in my opinion, in it being the size it is now. She taught me computing, in my senior year, after that slut Jenny Calender disappeared. I guess that's irony, in a way.

There was Xander Harris, as I dimly recall, although, call me a freak, I like to associate the grand title of nerd with some degree of intelligence – any intelligence at all will do, but apparently not for the Xan-man.

There was Sparky, who had convinced himself even back then that he was clearly morally superior to us all, and who skulked around deserted stairways and corridors at recess, when Cordelia Chase and her minions weren't dragging him around after them like Hector after Achilles. Pretty neat analogy, I think, although I guess Hector was probably taller, and I doubt Achilles was surgically attached to a miniskirt and pom-poms. I think Achilles was a better driver than Queen C, too.

(Yeah, I used to love myths and legends and all that crap. How do you think I got into Star Wars? Left that behind in high school, too.)

And then there was Andrew. Good old Andy. The kid never stopped believing in me, though I'm not sure when or why he ever started. It's not like I ever gave him any reason. Maybe he just needed someone better than him to show him the path to the Dark Side after big bro Tucker got kicked out of Sunny D High and kicked into the big house. All I know is Andy was the only one who ever looked up to me, though in a way he looked up to everyone, probably 'cause there was nothing for him to look down to. The only one, that is, except for- no, including Katrina. Says something, doesn't it, when a dweeb like Andy thinks better of you than your one bitch of an ex-girlfriend ever did? But that came later.

And then there was me: Warren Mears. But I guess I've already talked about myself a lot, by this point, and I'll probably talk about myself a lot again later. Might as well dedicate this oh-so-special moment to the kids who made the middle of my life, my high school years, what they were. I give you Sunnydale High, venue of the most mediocre time of my life. Didn't learn much. Didn't do much. Didn't die. Did end up on the track that'd take me to Dutton Tech College and Katrina, and later blackmail and murder and assault and death…

I was luckier than some.