Pain is just Nature's way of saying "HEY! You're alive!"

If that's true, then life is just God's way of saying, "April Fool's!". Which either means God likes having fun at everyone else's expense, or he's just very bad at telling jokes. I don't need to be reminded that I'm alive. Life is just a dead-baby joke, the same kind of bad joke God is good at telling. Or very bad at telling. Whichever way you want to look at it.

There's only one thing I can say about pain: it hurts, funnily enough. And unless you're into that kind of thing, it's not so great when it's the only thing you feel day in and day out. I can think of way nicer ways to remind myself I'm alive. Bit ironic when you think about it - life is the only incurable terminal disease that noone is ever going to find a cure for. And why would they want to? Eternal life sounds like my idea of hell. Another irony, at least for the incurably religious.

Good thing I don't believe in reincarnation or life after death, otherwise I'd be dreading facing another dead-baby joke after this lifelong one ends.

Miss me? I did.



Ten reasons to stay:

1. Work
2. Cuddy
3. Wilson
4. Where the hell else is there to go?
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.






This is stupid.

Anagrams of Gregory House:

Huge Ego Sorry
Huge Sore Orgy
Hose Orgy Urge
Go Orgy Us Here
See Orgy Rug Ho
Oh Ego Surgery
Ogre Shore Guy ha! almost meta, says the mun
Ooh Grey Urges
Shoe Orgy Urge
See Rough Orgy
Ego Corrodes Yoghurt

The last one sounds like a news headline.

Funny how 'orgies' and 'egos' and 'huge' are the recurring theme here.


Well, that was twenty minutes of my life well spent. Might as well go and play the piano for a while, or at least until I feel tired.

It's too late at night to be this awake. Then again, give it a few hours and it'll be too early in the morning to be awake, too. Can't win, no matter which way you swing it.

Vicodin: 3 left
Mankoski Pain Scale: 6½ bordering on 7
Internet porn: None of the good stuff is free


So, what do you do when you can't sleep?

According to the dictionary:

In·ter·net (noun): An interconnected system of networks that connects computers around the world via the TCP/IP protocol.

The real definition of Internet is:

In·ter·net (noun): lots of blogs and fat people trying to have sex with you.

I've been surfing around and checking out some of these said blogs. Some of them are so cute it's sickening. Should I start putting little blurbs about my feelings on each post I make? But I digress; occasionally, you come across stuff that differs from that definition entirely. Like this:

Cemetery full, mayor tells locals not to die
BORDEAUX, France (Reuters) - The mayor of a village in southwest France has threatened residents with severe punishment if they die, because there is no room left in the overcrowded cemetery to bury them.

In an ordinance posted in the council offices, Mayor Gerard Lalanne told the 260 residents of the village of Sarpourenx that "all persons not having a plot in the cemetery and wishing to be buried in Sarpourenx are forbidden from dying in the parish."

It added: "Offenders will be severely punished."

sauce

Wonder what protocols are in place at the local hospital there? 'Rules of admittance: No one is allowed to code. Any patient caught coding will be punished severely with the defibrillator'.

House doesn't believe in destiny. Or doom. Or fate. Or even God. Especially not God.

"What do you believe in?" Eve asks.

House looks away towards the lake, feeling the icy winter breeze against his face, and he squints at the sun reflecting off the water. He's already said so much about himself to this girl, to Eve, he's not sure he wants to say anything more. He's heard her recount of how she was raped, which left him feeling oddly... sad. Angry, even. It's hard not to care when you open yourself up to a person, intentionally or not. He doesn't want to reveal any more of that to her; he feels exposed and vulnerable enough.

But then he finds himself saying, "If by belief you mean faith, then I don't have any beliefs."

"Everyone believes in something," Eve replies.

He looks back to her and sees Eve studying him closely. "Choice," he finally says. "That's what I believe in."

"That's it?"

He watches her face. "Choices are all we have. Just have to hope we make the right ones."

She studies him for another few, silent moments. "Have you ever made any choices that you've regretted?"

House pauses, then nods. "Lots."

"So, you believe in regrets, too."

He shrugs. "Comes with the responsibility of making choices. Can't have left without right. Can't have right without wrong. Can't have choice without regrets. Otherwise, we'd never learn from our mistakes."

"You believe people can learn from their mistakes?"

"No one would survive if they didn't."

Eve shifts on the seat to look at him straight on. "And you don't believe that's destiny? That people are destined to survive?"

"If the world was based on destiny," he says, "then the choices we make wouldn't matter."

She looks out towards the lake and sighs. She seems... confused. Perhaps frustrated. As though she can't make up her mind whether to believe in destiny or not, even if she claims she wants to believe in ultimate consequences. At first House thinks she's going to argue his point, just like she's argued every other point he's raised since meeting her. But then he feels her shoulder rest against his, as though she's too tired to keep arguing and fighting anymore. He pretends not to notice; he's not going to see her again after today, so what does it matter if she leans on him, figuratively and literally, for just a little longer?

House turns his attention out towards the lake, too, and sits with her in silence with her shoulder against his until she says she's ready to leave.

House hadn't said a word for almost an hour.

What more was there to say? Nothing. Everything had been said and done. “I can't do this anymore, Greg,” Stacy had said while tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, “I just can't.”

“Then don't.”

Those two words had slipped out of his mouth before he even really thought them. But hearing them said aloud was like a sudden dash of cold water: a sharp jolt of clarity. Whatever passion he and Stacy had had over the years had gone in a matter of months. Completely gone. Shattered. All because of his fucking leg. And his pain. And his fears. And how much time he spent wishing he was dead. Deep down, he knew none of this was Stacy's fault.

Except it was. Because it was much easier to blame her for the way he'd become than face it front on. It was much easier to push her away from him than accept that this was his life now: pain, crippled, ugly, useless. And it was such relief to tell her to just leave because he didn't want to spend another night in bed with her, listening to her cry herself to sleep. Not that she did that every night. But she did enough to know that she grown to hate being with him just as much as he'd grown to hate her for what had happened to him.

So, he sat on the bed while she packed her things. He listened to her footfalls in the hall, in the living room, in the bathroom, refused to look at her when she finally came back into the bedroom. She picked up her bags and from the silence that followed, he knew she was watching him, waiting. For what, he didn't know. Acknowledgement, maybe. Perhaps an apology; an 'I'm sorry, Stacy, please don't leave me, please, I need you'. For him to take back those two words he'd uttered to her almost an hour ago. Maybe. For him to say he loved her. Or maybe just a simple goodbye.

He just stared at the floor. Waiting. For her to leave. Because there was nothing left to say. And even if there was something left to say, he didn't have the words.

“Goodbye, Greg,” Stacy said, her voice soft.

He just kept staring at that spot on the floor as he listened to her leave the room, venture down the hall, to the front door. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be feeling. Despair? Desperation? Heartbreak? All he felt was strangely... dead. No different to how he'd been feeling for the last couple of months, really. Dead. Dead, dead, dead.

He heard Stacy open the door, then close it for the last time and felt a single tear rolled down his cheek. He hastily wiped it away.

She was gone. The last thing he'd had left in his life. And there was nothing more to say, except all the things left unsaid.

This online blog thing. Let's see how this goes.