Stupid Cupid
House, M.D.
Amos Whirly

Word Count: 315

It's stupid.

I hate February. It's cold and wet and slippery, and halfway through the month, you're expected to wear red and spill your guys to the special someone in your life. I'm me, Greg House, the pill-popping cripple. Who on earth could possibly be special to me?

I've said it before. I'm a doctor, and my job is to take care of people, but it doesn't mean I have to like them. I hate people almost as much as I hate Valentine's Day. You know it's a stupid holiday when its icon is a fat angel-baby carrying a bow and arrow. Stupid.

Well, wait a minute. I take it back. Maybe I do have someone. Someone I lean on. Someone I couldn't do without. I think, maybe, I'm on to something here. I need to give her a name. That way I could avoid the stupid questions I know Wilson's going to ask me. Irene or Victoria or—oh here's a good one—Jezebel. No, that sounds like a cheap hooker.

Well, who do you think I'm talking about? Yes, you idiot, my cane. Who were you thinking? It's either my cane or my pills. That's all I want out of life. To do my job and to be left alone.

I bet you were thinking of Cameron. Get real. Cameron? She's just a kid. A talented, beautiful, brilliant kid. Her only interest in me is fixing me, and I like myself the way I am. Broken things aren't all that bad. Just because she's gorgeous and kind and no matter how hard I try to piss her off she still hangs around—that's no basis to say she could ever regard me as anything else than her superior. It's certainly no reason she should, at least.

So it's just me. Me, my Vicodin, and my cane.

And that's the way I like it.