Bill opens the screen door for her, and she unlocks the door, entering the dark house with one thought on her mind: a shower. "I still feel like there's blood all over me..." she says, flipping on a light switch to reveal a wall entirely dripping with blood; Bill takes in the scene and shouts, "Don't look up!" So of course she looks up: Tina the housecat, headless, strapped to the ceiling fan, spinning around and around, and shooting huge spurts of blood directly at Sookie's just-scrubbed face. I mean, my God.

This show started like a day ago and she's already: been entirely bathed in blood at least ten times, got fucked with a dead man's dirty dick in a graveyard, saw what she thought was Boyfriend Soup, reads the grody thoughts of Andy Bellefleur on the regular, lost a friend and her only stable relative in like one day, got literally murdered by meth addicts, drank vampire blood multiple times, got smacked around by her own brother, went from being a total pariah to being whatever pariahs spit on, went to retarded Fangtasia! twice, broke up with her best friend for literally no reason with her head in an oven and high on EZ-Off fumes, got nearly choked to death on two occasions -- once by a vampire and once by a Hep D-infected Daisy Dukes-wearing fangbanger, which BTW is a disease so fucked up it's imaginary -- saw a yucky smack-ho blowjob when she was still totally a virgin, has lost entire quarts mid-coitus... I mean, I would be showing the motherfucking strain, wouldn't you? Sookie needs a damn nap, is what she needs. Where the eff is that valium?

Jason's about to put it in, maybe for the first time, when Amy's like, "Wait, wait, wait," all slow and drunk still, with that same song from the truck playing. "First we have to thank the vampire for the gifts that he's bestowed upon us," she says, like Eddie is fucking venison. Listen, I live in Austin. I get it. And yes, carbon footprint is often at odds to aspirational eating disorders, and you have to pick what kind of asshole you are. Macrobiotic, while it strikes the correct aesthetic balance between fuel and health, means you can't stop talking about eating macrobiotic and doing fucking Ashtanga. Guess what? Thanking the spirit of the buffalo before you bite into that burger doesn't do a fucking thing. It's dead. You're alive. Own that. Jason breathes, unable to look at Eddie, but only because he's overcome by pleasure. By that intense feeling of connection that finds a blank spot where Eddie used to be. "We are grateful..." she says -- to a quick and lovely "Fuck you!" from my man Eddie -- "...For your gift to us." They ignore him; they start to fuck. It feels like God. Eddie feels it too.