Some women crush on George Clooney, Brad Pitt or Justin Bieber.
They like guys who are handsome, charming and well groomed.
I am not one of those women.
My secret crush is on a drug-addled cripple with a penchant for hookers. He has a nasty mouth and disposition and would be more likely to put Ex-lax in my coffee than Cognac.
He is a doctor, sure, and a good one. Perhaps a brilliant one, though I don't think many patients would give him credit for bed-side manner. Sometimes, he actually has to kill a patient before saving him.
I am a sucker for losers and abusers. Call me a bum magnet, I don't care.
Mean is sexy. Do the nasty, House. You know you want to.
For the past eight years, House has been my home.
But tomorrow night, it will be over between us as House takes a hike from prime time. Probably, they'll kill off his homoerotic best friend Wilson, and House will pack it in. I fully expect to see House having a cocktail on Amity Island, the place of sharks and sheriffs that is David Shore's vanity card at the end of each show. You know the wink: "That's some bad hat harry," which is an homage to Jaws.
Or maybe he'll start running a House of Ill Repute with all his hooker pals.
Or a Bath House. Maybe he'll buy a House of Blues franchise.
Regardless, House is outa here.
And here I will sit, with tissues in my hand, lost in my thoughts.
Oh Greg, Greg, Greg.
Come over to my House.
Bring the Vicodin, your Fender.
Don't forget the chaser of bourbon.
We'll play strip poker and drink to Wilson.
We'll sing the blues together.
We all know how life ends.