It's nearing the end of the year, and so...am feeling a twinge
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, wewe remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created zaidi pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right au fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we upendo our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the upendo at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the kinanda silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.
of nostalgia, backward thinking I suppose - a little sadness.
I actually kind of miss seeing Greg House sunk way down into those soft leather cushions, wewe remember...back at the old apartment. Especially those times that followed yet another diagnostic epiphany, a life saved - though not before House turned over every card in the deck - one usually stacked impossibly against him, against time and the team of players. A most gut wrenching game that pushed them to the edge and over it, but most of all pushed House. That place was a refuge away from the hospital, where House was most often alone and exhausted - ignoring people, his bleeping cell phone, choosing instead to put the world and his pain on hold.
EPIC-CHRONIC-HURT. Like a damaged, sweet dog on a short chain, spirit broken, unable to play. House with those devastating blue eyes and wicked handsome face, (makes our collective hearts skip a beat), collapsed out on that couch, in dark tee and flannels, tv flickering, a thick rimmed drink glass within reach - yes, the whole scene was so familiar, comfortable.
We have witnessed his most weakened self and darkest hours.
Police files, jail cells, a near death spiral addiction to vicodin pills that certainly created zaidi pain than they lessened. I'm not sure if it is right au fair to romanticize such personal suffering, though we do, because we upendo our genius doctor. This character who, in spite of it all - keeps us in stitches, but mostly on pins and needles WONDERING...now that he has saved his own life, can he triumph further and win over the upendo at the center of it? Will he again pull Cuddy back, close to him, and with all abandon hold her tightly in his arms and never let go. This time for real, for keeps, forever, unstoppable, birds singing! EPIC-CHRONIC-LOVE.
We're leaving Apt. 221B closed, Sher-locked up for now, this past in cold storage, the kinanda silent.
Well fans...go on...grab that remote on the floor and press fast forward...past Mayfield...past Lydia...long past Lucas......ahhh, it just doesn't work that way. XO-bluehue.