Sam informs her that cities bring out the worst in people and also cause them to lose touch with nature and/or where they come from, which is nature also. Daphne points out that people do that in Bon Temps, too, with insane regularity, and only more so I think if Maryann gets her way. Or maybe they will stop when Maryann gets her way, which is the same problem but reversed. Too much nature ain't fucking natural, as my Grandmother used to say, and which I still dearly take to heart.

Speaking of too much nature, Daphne's fingertips are raisins, she wants sweet potato pancakes (which re: Sam completes her sentence, adorably), and she wants them now. And is he coming? No, because just like Luke he has a boner problem. She's like, "A) I know what a dick looks like, and B) water is clear. That's like its whole job. Which means C) I was checking out your dick. While wearing my adorable panties mere feet from you, and so are we getting pancakes or what?" She is very awesome, this Daphne. She does sultry really well. It's like she took the cartoon of soap operas and applied them to being a human being, which makes her sexiness and secretiveness huge but not cartoonishly so. And she climbs onto the platform and Sam sees the humongous scars we saw last week, and what he thinks about that I do not know. I don't even know if they got pancakes. I hope they did. Sam needs friends worse than the Collective Thorntons.

Of whom my favorite member is, now that it's morning, talking to Sookie on the phone about their arrangement. Which Sookie hastens to remind Tara is a permanent placement, so stop thinking you're a couch-crasher who needs to find an apartment, and just come live with me so we can be awesome together... Just as soon as I leave you all alone in a house where in the last month approximately fifty people were murdered and/or nearly murdered and/or turned into dogs who may or may not have gotten into fistfights with vampires and where I was recently chased around the kitchen a dizzying number of times by our town's first serial killer. On your birthday.

(To which a conscientious co-tenant might reply, "Sure, as long as you don't mind my orgiastic Dionysus cult establishing a base of operations in -- and splattering blood, jizz and cake all over the walls of -- your childhood home! Happy-ass birthday!")