My friend is gnarling his gnarly teeth on an enormous chicken leg. I’m reclining, staring at the television and thinking about a plethora of pithy pittances. The homework I have to do. The shit I have to take. The porn I’m inevitably going to indulge in. Once or twice. Friend gnashing across flesh. Me, spinning inward into the cosmos of my own inner monologue.

On screen, what was once a Viking Lord and a Gap Toothed Horror are indulging in their thirtieth conversation of this season in which they proclaim that they want nothing but to lie in one another’s arms. They’re floating about a magical frosty fornication forest, replete with snow. As they babble, and babble, and babble, I can’t help but zone out and imagine a time when Eric wasn’t some blathering bitch. Some quivering pile of Nordic Handsomeness reduced to a babbling bonerjam, whose only purpose on the show is to give Sookie yet another cheap momentary bliss. Only to be wrenched away, causing oh the tears to flow, oh the sadness to swallow.

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