Author's Note: Parenthetical asides are for my own fun. One more female and then a bonus chappie. "STiYSoD" is progressing. Promise. Lyrics belong to the genius Bob Dylan.

Once upon a time you dressed so fine…

People called said beware doll, you're bound to fall

You thought they were all kidding you…

Princess on a steeple and all the pretty people

They're all drinking, thinking that they've got it made…

When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to loose

You're invisible now, you've got not secret to conceal

How does it feel, how does it feel?

--Bob Dylan, "Like a Rolling Stone"

You write as the sun leaves Cancer and moves into your birth sign, Leo. You write words of fiery passion and needy love and you can't help but smile when your horoscope tells you that you are 'impetuous.' You're actually quite surprised and relieved (and a tad bit disappointed) that it doesn't say 'crazy.'

All the good guys eat fudge and all the bad boys take drugs. You've never liked fudge and have always avoided drugs—there's no middle ground anymore (but everything's grayer than you think and shades of white and black bleed worse than anything else.)

You like these words on paper because you can manipulate them. It's so much harder to bend spoken words to fit your needs. You slip on a syllable and the whole meaning of the word (sentence) is screwed. Yeah, it's like a lot of things in life (discard your opponent's gin card, call something a date, trip on something you don't see…)

You can't believe you have no idea how to start the letter. You don't know how to start it because nothing is ever appropriate. It's always House at work, but God it looks awful written as a supposedly friendly salutation.

But is this just a friendly salutation? You have no idea. You need to write to him

to make sure he knows that it is (but it isn't) his fault. You need to write to him to make sure the team's not hurting. And you need to write to him to make sure he knows you are still enamored with him.

He'll never reciprocate the feelings, you know, as you put down the heavy pen. He might, but he can't ever show it. Even now, when you and he have come to a mutual understanding that you like him, you understand that it's not his style to love. It's not his style. Emotions are your forte and he rather likes obscurity and sarcasm.

You have exactly one word down on paper—'dear'. Oh, yes, dear. Dear, dear, dear. Maybe it's the fact that it's what sweethearts call each other. Maybe it's the fact that it sounds sappy. (Sure you'd love to call him dear endearingly, but right now it just sounds…cloying?)

Once again, you pick up the pen and start to spill expensive ink on the costly stationary. It's mint green lined with pink and it's personalized. Your favorite. (Although you are starting to wonder whether bringing out the fancy equipment is worth it for House. He'll throw it away anyway.)

You stop writing and think about where he could be right now. Perhaps he is in bed or perhaps he is watching television (perhaps he is writing like you are. Ah, too much symmetry and happy coincidence for it to be true.)

Why are you writing this letter? (Damn good question, and you can't answer it. You fail the test.) You really don't know. You think you're playing to your egotism. He'll read this and think of you as more than a "duckling" for a few moments. Maybe he can even confront his feelings…

You snort. Confront his feelings? (Wait, are those pigs flying or are they spots in your eyes from staring at the same piece of paper for so long? Let's go with B.) One day maybe he'll change…

Your parents said that about you when you cried over dead spiders (that you killed) and wanted to take home every puppy from the pound (even though you never took care of them.) Things don't change because you still cry over spiders (and humans) that you help kill and still take home every puppy (or broken man) from the pound (even though you never actually care for them).

"How does it feel?" You sing (scream) at the top of your lungs. Let the neighbors call the police. You'll gladly take a citation for one moment of pure frustration—release (courtesy Bob Dylan and his ever-true dismissal to anyone powerful and pretty—yes, you included.)

How does it feel is right. How the hell is this supposed to feel? (More important—what are you going to write in this letter?) Does anybody really know what this (life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness) is supposed to feel like? (Apparently the Founders did—dead old men.)

The song continues and you keep time to Dylan with the tapping of your pen (thank God for rhyming words and social commentary!) And MASH plays in the background. It's the only television show that's ever made you laugh and cry in the same half an hour (humanity at its best and humanity at its worst—saving lives and killing them—medicine and religion—peace and war—dashes that continue to eternity and beyond.)

Shall you write that you love him? Or that you love listening to Don Henley's Dirty Laundry while watching Network? Should you question him on what he likes to read? What he likes to do in his spare time? What his childhood was like? What are (were) his dreams? (But it's all stupidity because you could simply ask him to his face—coward.)

Actually, labels are probably too good for you. Doctor, immunologist, widow, schoolgirl, lover, daughter, friend, hard-worker, weak, and the list trudges on (slowly, meandering its way through suggestions and the like.)

This is the time when you wish you had a best friend or a mother to listen to your man problems. But you don't have a girl friend (you were always too pretty and they were always too jealous—oh, the psychoanalyses on them probably didn't help, either.) and you and your mother were never close. So you have to rely on your Leo stubbornness to figure out what you're doing (you know the answer—you're not doing anything.)

You figure now that this bespeaks volumes of foolishness. Writing him a love note (what are you? In fifth grade?) He doesn't even read his own mail (that'd be you. Do you really what to go through this experience twice?)

When you fling the pen (God it was expensive!) across the room you realize that maybe this really isn't the best idea (no shit). You've done stupider things in your life (marrying your dying husband ring a bell?), but this is one of the more moronic (there's a difference?)

It's the end of the hour. You tear up the paper. It didn't cost that much (oh, of course it did…you could've gotten a massage with that money!)

"Oh do shut up!" You scream at your very annoying (but correct) conscience.

The response?

"You're invisible now, you've got no secrets to conceal. How does it feel?"