Okay, so I got this idea while reading entries on the house_reqs LJ comm. I think someone tried it out a few years ago and then stopped, but it was a great idea so I'm going to give it a go. I'll try to post one every day, from House's POV, as if House were writing a blog. It's also going to be an experiment for me because I have problems writing from House's POV, so I guess this is practice or something. Anywho, here goes. :)

Title: Greg House's Super Secret Blog, 11/6/2009
Word Count: 1600
Rating: PG-13
Comments/concrit welcome! Like I said, it's a writing exercise of sorts, so...


November 6, 2009

4:20 pm

For the record, I'm doing this under protest. My stupid therapist thinks I have problems expressing myself, and for some reason, he's under the mistaken impression that writing a daily blog is good practice for learning proper emote-ability. Moron. Actually, what he really wanted me to do was keep a diary. Yes, like a prepubescent girl, complete with the cute fluffy-tipped pink pen and the heart-shaped lock that any moron above the age of three could pick. Like it would help to keep a log of my own patheticness. All he's teaching me to do is vent better and create new and more scathing methods of insulting people since I have time enough to employ my entire vocabulary in writing form. When I'm speaking to someone, I have to fly by the seat of my pants. I admit, not everything that comes out that way is worthy of my skills as a complete bastard.

On second thought, maybe this is a good idea. I should anonymously send people links to it so they can see just how much I actually filter out when I go off on them. I think they might be surprised to learn how much I'm holding back. (For "they", read, "James E. Wilson, sanctimonious Pain In The Ass.")

God, I hate Wilson sometimes. That stupid fucking bastard can't get it through his thick skull that he actually is a serial womanizer. He thinks I'm just being a dick when I point it out (which I guess maybe I am, but somebody needs to tell him). It doesn't occur to him that maybe, just maybe, I actually do have his best interests at heart. I mean, come on! He's worse than I am. At least I have the grace to be a bastard from day one. Nobody could ever claim that I led them on or concealed my true intentions. No. I don't play that game (most of the time). I'm not that mean. WYSIWYG.

But then there's Wilson. He latches onto people and then sucks the neediness right out of them. I suppose I should give him props for at least going after the right kind of person – "right kind" being the sort who get off on his fawning, because really, he's like this smotherer. He just gets his claws into people and refuses to let go, and he just heaps presents and attention and sex on them, and the next thing he knows, he's married and miserable because they don't have the first fucking clue about who he really is, or what he really likes, or what he really wants. And then these women end up confused and upset because they suddenly realize they have no idea who they married, and he's off screwing nurses or waitresses or random girls he meets in bars, or the secretary at his mechanic's shop while he's getting an oil change… I wonder how many STD's he's had in his life.

Note to self: pull Wilson's medical file. Not his hospital records; his alias file. He has to have one. All good doctors have a public as well as a genuine medical file. I'll have to find his real one.

Second note to self: Come up with new alias for self and transfer all records. Wilson knows my current alias.

Third note to self: Buy a Slurpee on the way home.

Anyway…Wilson. Jesus Christ on crutches. I caught him doing his come-hither thing with a new staff oncologist today. Redhead, lithe…I'm 72% sure she was a Playboy centerfold in the eighties.

Fourth note to self: Conduct background check on The Redheaded Step Sister.

So anyway, there was Wilson, showing off his stupid dimples like a moron, leaning on the clinic counter in one of his little-boy-oncologist poses, with his hand on her elbow. When will that man learn? She's only flirting back because she can use him. She's on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. (I know this because the rubber is worn off the tips of her heals; I saw her footprints in the mud out in the parking lot, and she's had her clothes altered to account for a slight gain in weight brought on by changing her diet from organic food to processed, which is cheaper, rather than buying new clothes. Plus, she did the alterations herself instead of going to a seamstress; she has calluses on the edge of her thumb from using a sewing machine, and a bandage on the left edge of her right index finger, next to the nail, from where she probably sewed herself on accident. She's a doctor. If she weren't hurting for money, she's still be eating good food, and she'd buy a new cache of power suits instead of trying to make her old ones look trendy.) So she's only interested in him because if she can snag him, she'll be able to cut her living expenses and avoid filing chapter 7. But Wilson doesn't see that. He can smell it, I'm sure; there have to be pheremones associated with desperation, and Wilson's programmed to drool over them like Pavlovian imbecile. But he can't see it.

He's not going out tonight, though. It's Friday – movie night. He already promised he'd hang out with me, so I have time to convince him that she's not good for him. We're still living together, too. I think he's pissed about that, but I can't tell for sure. I know he doesn't really want me there or he wouldn't have made me sleep on the couch for six weeks. He would have let me have the other bedroom right away. But I can't go home. It's dusty and there's no power. And there's Vicodin all over the place. I know he tried to clean the place out, but Wilson's no addict; he doesn't know how to think like one. And my leg hurts all the time still. I don't know if I could stop myself from taking one. Or four. I'd probably OD; my body couldn't handle the amount I used to take, but I don't know if I could stop at just one. I hate them, I really do, but sometimes I remember how they tasted – bitter and chalky, and completely disgusting – but my mouth will water at the thought of having one. I can't go back there. I'd rather sleep in the creepy Amber shrine and go nuts again than go back there. How pathetic is that?

I can't tell that to Wilson though. He'd think I was angling for something. The thing is, I don't even know what he'd think I was angling for, but he wouldn't ever be caught dead taking the things I say at face value. He's a jerk that way. Greg House must always have ulterior motives. I have to be manipulating something out of him. The jerk feeds on needy people, and yet he can't see that sometimes, I just need him to shut the hell up and…I dunno. Be the Jimmy that women fall all over.

Scratch that; it came out wrong. I mean, why can't he be the Jimmy that everybody else gets? The nice, comforting, helpful one? I'm not saying I want him to flirt with me or woo me or something, or treat me like one of his simpering fangirls, just… I don't even know what I'm saying. It's like I'm the only one he doesn't… I dunno. I can't figure it out. I just…don't ever get him. Nobody does, but it seems like other people get more of him than I do.

Forget it. I don't even know what I mean. Stupid Nolan. See, this is what happens when I get in touch with my inner drama queen. I just get confused and pissed off. Fuck it. I'm going home.

November 6, 2009

10:36 pm

Wilson cancelled on me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Who wouldn't want to take out a hot redheaded centerfold rather than watch crappy old movies on the couch with some guy he has to see every day? I don't know why I'm even disappointed. It's not like he's never done it before, and I'm perfectly capable of watching TV alone. I do it all the time.

Sometimes I wish I could hurt him back. I don't want to punch him or anything, I just want him to feel it too sometimes. I want him to feel like somebody reached into his gut with both hands and wrung out his stomach. And then I want him to try and keep a straight face so the other guy doesn't know how much it hurts to be expendable to the one person whose opinion of him actually matters. And I want him to go home alone and sit in the fucking dark on his squishy-ass unsupportive couch and wonder why he's not good enough, why he's never the more important person. And I want him to get so mad that all he can do is grit his teeth and refuse to fucking cry like a stupid little kid while he convinces himself that it doesn't actually matter that his best friend only gives a crap when it doesn't interfere with his libido. And then I want him to cry anyway, because it does matter, and he can't make it stop mattering. Fucking prick.

I take it back. I do want to punch him, because he'll never get it, and he'll never feel that, and at least getting his nose broken will hurt. I should have let him leave after Amber died. He's right. We're not friends. He's just my fucking babysitter.

I hope his new trollop gives him herpes.