So This is Your Scrap of Dignity
Title: So This is Your Scrap of Dignity
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: House/Cameron eventually
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: “House” isn’t mine.
Author’s Note: “House” isn’t mine…So I got this brilliant idea…iambic pentameter for House and rhymes about a phone…I can’t decide if it’s misguided brilliance (the ego!) or a lack of things to do. I opt for the latter. But this isn’t iambic pentameter because I’m a terrible stressor and so you get this. Misguided attempts at rhymes in prose. No, there is no rhyme scheme except for the last line and the aside. They’re supposed to rhyme. Any other rhymes are simply there to humor me…and some of you. It’s a multi-chapter and it’s H/Ca (duh!) Enjoy.
His mother whispers quietly...
Heaven's not a place that you go when you die
It's that moment in life
When you actually feel alive
--Spill Canvas, “Tide”
It’s a cruel invention, and oh, how it bespeaks passionate condescension. Flying ships and sailing planes…see the world turn and spin.
(Make up patients to diagnose…his confessions to sin.)
Pick it up; a voice materializes from his past to haunt this present.
(He needs her one hundred and ten percent.)
“Will you be here in the future?”
(So, the guy tore out his frontal suture…)
And he speaks in tongues (curses, mostly) as he holds the receiver and asks clichéd Shakespearian questions to the 9 a.m. daylight. A horrible device that he rarely uses, but for now it must suffice. Face to face communication diminishes with advances of Bell’s annoyingly antiquated creation.
(All of this-it’s just the laws of primal civilization.)
The Nike slogan floats through the air and he feels a twitching in his jaw. With the absence of this tic he becomes a hypochondriac and a hypocrite. Oh, hypo-this, hypo-that, he wants to destroy the phone. But he can’t because it’s his only tool to evade being alone.
(Aha! Skin lesions equal fibrous dysplasia of bone.)
Sunday mornings belong to God, but he belongs to no one, man or an immortal sod. He fancies himself as a genius with a noticeable allegiance to painkillers and easy-to-find convenience. He rhymes to himself to comfort long lost English teachers. You’ll never amount to nothing…ah; double negatives permeate through the nation.
(So, the woman pursues the man. The joyous effects of westernization.)
Little squares filled with numbers…leading to nowhere and infinity, blank space and full lines; he continues to fall. The path to her is written on a scrap of a gum wrapper, no bigger than it must be, waste one day turns into interplanetary paste.
(What can be derived from a momentary lack of taste?)
So, touch and push the buttons, (harder than necessary) just the way he wants to touch her and just the way he pushes her. It rings and rings for a year and half it seems (is it time to go Christmas shopping to get garish things?) There’s a beep and her voice, mechanized by technology, hidden by the reverberations of his breath.
(Can she handle muscle death?)
He hates this frivolous impediment. His voice now, husky and arrogantly self-confident.
(Still thinking of symptoms and such…there will always be unfortunate incidents.)
“Riddle me this, whom do atheists worship on Sundays?”
(He wonders if she likes Monet.)
When he slams the phone down he ends the conversation that he realizes he’s been carrying on with himself. He hopes she hears the slamming of the phone (and doors later). But hopes are for people whose God dictates will through a delicate figurine He calls the Pope.
(Allergic to oft-taken dope?)
Churches fill; he’s all alone. Margaritas…still too early to drink. Never to early to contemplate the brink of the universe and, if we reach it will we fall? He knows no answer and figures he’ll drink to that. Excuses and reasons to provide himself-eternal critic and unforgiving cynic. Laws of gravity and physics need not apply; he’ll take his decadent alcohol supply.
(This plan cannot go awry.)
So he’ll wait for the call from the damnable telephone and hope to God (and other such deities) that she’ll respond to a riddle he finds heartbreakingly sad.
(What makes him so abysmally mad?)
But he won’t admit and “you must acquit!” His crimes are numerous and he has no sympathetic pleas…just sarcasm and its eternal glee. Take her hand and drop it down…she deserves someone who wears a crown. (She deserves and could acquire any man…let the record show the variable is he: House, of course.)
(And it’s Cameron being propelled by that centrifugal force.)
A patient’s dying somewhere, so he runs disease through is head. Viruses, bacterias, and all the like, his friendly companions. Tea for five today, he muses. “Good evening, Vic, Cane, E. Coli, and AIDS. Meet the infarction and my insurmountable charm.”
(He must be lying about the acquisition of that rash on his arm.)
It takes mere minutes, but it seems like an eon because the journey leads to an end that he always forgets is coming. Pleased to introduce the glorious inevitable.
(…)
It rings.
Author: Bellsie
Pairing: House/Cameron eventually
Rating: PG-13ish
Disclaimer: “House” isn’t mine.
Author’s Note: “House” isn’t mine…So I got this brilliant idea…iambic pentameter for House and rhymes about a phone…I can’t decide if it’s misguided brilliance (the ego!) or a lack of things to do. I opt for the latter. But this isn’t iambic pentameter because I’m a terrible stressor and so you get this. Misguided attempts at rhymes in prose. No, there is no rhyme scheme except for the last line and the aside. They’re supposed to rhyme. Any other rhymes are simply there to humor me…and some of you. It’s a multi-chapter and it’s H/Ca (duh!) Enjoy.
His mother whispers quietly...
Heaven's not a place that you go when you die
It's that moment in life
When you actually feel alive
--Spill Canvas, “Tide”
It’s a cruel invention, and oh, how it bespeaks passionate condescension. Flying ships and sailing planes…see the world turn and spin.
(Make up patients to diagnose…his confessions to sin.)
Pick it up; a voice materializes from his past to haunt this present.
(He needs her one hundred and ten percent.)
“Will you be here in the future?”
(So, the guy tore out his frontal suture…)
And he speaks in tongues (curses, mostly) as he holds the receiver and asks clichéd Shakespearian questions to the 9 a.m. daylight. A horrible device that he rarely uses, but for now it must suffice. Face to face communication diminishes with advances of Bell’s annoyingly antiquated creation.
(All of this-it’s just the laws of primal civilization.)
The Nike slogan floats through the air and he feels a twitching in his jaw. With the absence of this tic he becomes a hypochondriac and a hypocrite. Oh, hypo-this, hypo-that, he wants to destroy the phone. But he can’t because it’s his only tool to evade being alone.
(Aha! Skin lesions equal fibrous dysplasia of bone.)
Sunday mornings belong to God, but he belongs to no one, man or an immortal sod. He fancies himself as a genius with a noticeable allegiance to painkillers and easy-to-find convenience. He rhymes to himself to comfort long lost English teachers. You’ll never amount to nothing…ah; double negatives permeate through the nation.
(So, the woman pursues the man. The joyous effects of westernization.)
Little squares filled with numbers…leading to nowhere and infinity, blank space and full lines; he continues to fall. The path to her is written on a scrap of a gum wrapper, no bigger than it must be, waste one day turns into interplanetary paste.
(What can be derived from a momentary lack of taste?)
So, touch and push the buttons, (harder than necessary) just the way he wants to touch her and just the way he pushes her. It rings and rings for a year and half it seems (is it time to go Christmas shopping to get garish things?) There’s a beep and her voice, mechanized by technology, hidden by the reverberations of his breath.
(Can she handle muscle death?)
He hates this frivolous impediment. His voice now, husky and arrogantly self-confident.
(Still thinking of symptoms and such…there will always be unfortunate incidents.)
“Riddle me this, whom do atheists worship on Sundays?”
(He wonders if she likes Monet.)
When he slams the phone down he ends the conversation that he realizes he’s been carrying on with himself. He hopes she hears the slamming of the phone (and doors later). But hopes are for people whose God dictates will through a delicate figurine He calls the Pope.
(Allergic to oft-taken dope?)
Churches fill; he’s all alone. Margaritas…still too early to drink. Never to early to contemplate the brink of the universe and, if we reach it will we fall? He knows no answer and figures he’ll drink to that. Excuses and reasons to provide himself-eternal critic and unforgiving cynic. Laws of gravity and physics need not apply; he’ll take his decadent alcohol supply.
(This plan cannot go awry.)
So he’ll wait for the call from the damnable telephone and hope to God (and other such deities) that she’ll respond to a riddle he finds heartbreakingly sad.
(What makes him so abysmally mad?)
But he won’t admit and “you must acquit!” His crimes are numerous and he has no sympathetic pleas…just sarcasm and its eternal glee. Take her hand and drop it down…she deserves someone who wears a crown. (She deserves and could acquire any man…let the record show the variable is he: House, of course.)
(And it’s Cameron being propelled by that centrifugal force.)
A patient’s dying somewhere, so he runs disease through is head. Viruses, bacterias, and all the like, his friendly companions. Tea for five today, he muses. “Good evening, Vic, Cane, E. Coli, and AIDS. Meet the infarction and my insurmountable charm.”
(He must be lying about the acquisition of that rash on his arm.)
It takes mere minutes, but it seems like an eon because the journey leads to an end that he always forgets is coming. Pleased to introduce the glorious inevitable.
(…)
It rings.