Wow, you guys like this one! *is happeeeeee* :D So, here's more!

Spoilers for all seasons up through all aired episodes of Season 6, but major for the medical conference episode of season 6. You might want to brush up on it before reading.

A/N: Celine Dion is not so bad, really. I have nothing personal against her, and I wish no harm on her. House might, though...who knows these things for sure?

November 13, 2009

1:02am

I am officially gay (in the euphemistic sense). (Pervert. I know what you're thinking.) I just spent three hours making my blog pretty with "skins" and graphics and color charts and aesthetically pleasing layouts and…I feel effeminate. Is this how Wilson feels when he picks out curtains and kitchenware? No wonder he has delusions of morphine trips. In fact, I feel self-destructive myself. I mean, look – you can see it. I picked pastels, for Christ's sake. Pretty blue pastels, even. Because it looked relaxing in the preview pane. And now, I can't help noticing that the background color compliments my eyes. I mean, WTF? I'm a dude. I should have monster trucks and neon green on black, right? But no. I have a pretty array of soft blues, and a header photo of some porpoise (unfortunately, not one swimming with a naked chick this time. I lost my bookmarks to that site.)

Anyway, why the hell am I describing it to you? You can see it. For that matter, who am I talking to? Nobody reads this. It's set to private. Screw you all. Or me all. Or…fuck it. I forgot what I was insulting.

Wilson's in bed now, asleep. Or at least I think so, because I haven't heard him channeling dead girlfriends for about an hour and a half now. I'm overreacting, right? There are studies out that claim that depressed people with a suicide plan are less likely to follow through than depressed people without one. Something about feeling less trapped. I could see that, I guess. (Hello, stash of 600 Vicodin pills.) But it doesn't make me any less scared shitless. I mean, seriously. Less likely, not zero likely. Hell, look at me.

Gah. I need to pretend to sleep. We're supposed to road trip up to that conference thing in the morning, not that Wilson knows I plan to go yet. I have to work on how to fight it without him telling me to just stay here. Because, you know; I can't just go, right? He has to talk me into it somehow, or threaten me, or manipulate me… How sad is it that I have to manipulate my own best friend into manipulating me into going someplace I already want to go, just because I can't admit I'm worried enough about him to tag along, and he can't admit that he wants me tagging along. Or, um…the first half of that, anyway. I don't know what Wilson wants anymore. For all I know, he can't wait until I move out, and having me here in the middle of his mourning flat is half of what's wrong with him. Like the constant reminder of Amber in this hell hole wasn't enough before her killer shacked up with him.

Ugh. I didn't kill her. It was a freak accident. Not my fault. (I am banging the keys – repeat ten times, Nolan says. Every time you reflexively think "I killed her," you must repeat the mantra ten times. How long do I have to do this shit, I ask? And he says, "Until you believe it." I hate that man sometimes. Seriously. Instead of making believe that I didn't kill her, he's just turning me into a crazy mutterer. Mutter-mutter-mutter. And this is why therapy is good for me?)

Well. I am off to mutter myself to sleep. Goodnight, interwebs.

November 13, 2009

8:22am

I found an alibi. Doctor Pearlmutter signed up for the conference, but he will be indisposed all weekend, according to his very helpful and somewhat dumb personal assistant. I just like the name because the irony appeals to me. Pearlmutter. Haha!

Shut up. I'm easily amused.

Anyway, all I have to do now is make it seem like I only want to go now because Cuddy's going. Which, you know…that might have worked even if I weren't worried about Wilson, because I am 99.2% sure that I would have wanted to go just to have an opportunity to screw with her. Euphemistically or otherwise, should the opportunity present. Not that I'd ever admit to worrying about Wilson. I don't worry about other people. Ever. Unless it's Wilson, and he doesn't find out about it, in which case, yeah. I worry. So…whatever. STFU.

Eh. Does that sound like bullshit? The Cuddy part, not the worrying part. The funny thing is, I don't know if I'm really into that anymore. And before you go making assumptions about my manhood and the pretty coordinated pastel profile scheme, of course I'm into that. I still think she's hot, of course. Who wouldn't? And I still kinda want to tap that. But every time I think about it, I just remember the stupid…you know. The hallucination. It makes me feel sort of funny. Like, sick almost, I think. Sort of ashamed, but that's not the right word either, and sort of a little scared because it was so fucking real except for the part where it wasn't. Jesus, what the hell was I doing for that hour, anyway? I mean, for real. I have no idea. And Cuddy's part of that – me wanting her is part of that. I don't know if I'm actually okay with that.

Plus, I sort of embarrassed her in front of half the hospital by shouting from the balcony that I did her, so… If she doesn't kind of hate me or hope to never have anything further to do with me outside of a professional context, then she probably thinks I'm a poor little broken creature, like a bird with a snapped wing or something.

No, ew, ick - that's too nauseatingly poetic. I now have Celine Dion lyrics playing in my head. Flying cripple hearts…whatever. DIE, WENCH OF CANADA!!!

Amend that to snake with a broken rattle. Yeah, that's cooler. I can handle that one, cuz I'm still poisonous and deadly that way.

Anyway, the point is, I've been treading on eggshells around her ever since I got back, and she's been doing the same damn thing, like she's afraid I'll break again if she looks at me wrong. I mean, part of that night was real – I went into her office, and I insulted her (it was a really good one, too – stabbed her right in her perky little chest). Anyway, I can't even…I don't know. I can't figure out how I just didn't see her leave the office and walk away from me. I can't. And she knows it, too. She's got the kid gloves on around me, like I'm wearing a "Don't upset the crazies" sign.

I think I'm pissed at her for walking away. I think I'm really just mad that she wasn't still in that room when I asked for her help. Because, you know – I asked, dammit. And nobody fucking heard me. Why is that? Am I whispering, or something? Are they deaf?

Whatever. I'm making myself mad which, according to Mufasa, is not the point of this blog. So, fuck you all. I have a Wilson to con.

November 13, 2009

3:03pm

(internet via cell phone)

Oh. My. God. Please shoot me. Please. Please, I'll do anything you want if you just end me now.

I am stuck in a Volvo with Wilson, his stupid Gilbert and Sullivan CD box set, Cuddy (who is singing along with Wilson, wtf), and a screaming baby that smells like screaming baby.

God, why? What did I ever do to you, besides curse you and deny your existence, and harass your moronic (yet blindly faithful) followers, and maybe usurp your alter for the sake of theatrics, and mock you, and challenge your usefulness/authority/intelligence/intelligent design/wisdom/bishops/popes/miraculousness/fables/foibles/sheep… I'm sure you have a list somewhere. But seriously – Gilbert and Sullivan? That's just mean. In fact, didn't the guys at Gitmo play this sort of crap for days on end as a method of torture? Smart guys. I'd fold. Even if I weren't a terrorist, I'd totally make some shit up just to end the agony. I'm thinking of doing it now, as a matter of fact. Think Wilson will buy it? I should call Homeland Security with a bogus confession. They'll totally come rescue me, probably with a helicopter and everything.

I'm making a break for it at the next rest stop. Wilson's unconfirmed self-destructive tendencies aren't worth this. That, and I really have a taste for Doritos. And a grape soda.

November 13, 2009

3:31pm

(internet via cell phone)

What sort of gas station does not carry grape soda? I'm writing them a letter the second we get to the lodge. It's unpatriotic.

Ew. Now I sound like Wilson whining over the order of the cheese versus the mushrooms in his melty sandwich thing.

Wilson just told me to quit whining. What, like he can tell I'm whining by the dead silent manner in which I'm sitting here, innocently punching the tiny letter buttons on my keypad? (Okay, yeah, he probably can. Freak.) (And note to Motorola: real people have fingers that are like 13 times the size of these tiny effing letter buttons on the flip-out keyboard. And using that gay little stylus to hit the buttons is impossible in a moving vehicle, btw. In case it didn't come up in product testing. Get a better demographic, you cheap-ass losers.)

Wilson knows I'm still whining. He brought his psychic squint with him today. I have to sign off now; it's difficult to whine and type with my thumbnails at the same time.

November 13, 2009

11:40pm

Wow. Total disaster. Like, crash and burn and abandoned on the dance floor dressed like a fop, kind of disaster. (A dashing, ruggedly handsome fop, mind you. Oh, yeah – believe it. I mean, seriously – I'd do me, dressed like that.)

Anyway. My knee sock fetish is so not the point, here. Moving on.

Why, you ask me, did she leave you standing there without so much as a by-your-leave? I shall tell you why. Because *gasp* apparently, I am not quite the unmitigated bastard she has thought me to be for the past twenty five years.

See, boys and girls? That's what happens when you make assumptions about people. You look like an ass, and you make the other person feel like an ass when he actually had the (semi)noblest intentions at heart, which plans only went awry due to unavoidable circumstances of fate. (Getting kicked out of college is an unavoidable circumstance of fate, yes. Because if it weren't for fate and tattle-tales, I would never have gotten caught...um. Doing whatever the hell I did that time. I don't even remember anymore.) And then you run away all pouty-faced with crappy 80's music taunting you the whole way out.

On the plus side, she was definitely flirting with me. In a subtle, understated, I don't want to foment another psychotic break kind of way. But hey – we were slow dancing, right? I'm talking full frontal contact. You can't do that, and not be flirting. And she liked my cane. Heh. (Yeah, I'm juvenile. What of it?)

I am so in. Can I get a hell yeah? *pep squad*