sixwordstories | (no subject)

I'm busy caring. Go away.

You're the first person I'll vomit on if I detox. Chase will be the second.

Are you still here?

Give me your pen. I'll write my own script. I've got the curly W to a fine art.

You've got being a pain in my arse to a fine art, also. Marco only fills Vicodin scripts from my pad if I call him ahead. Nice try, House. You shouldn't have insulted the meme.

You shouldn't have let Chase's idiotness rub off on you. You lie down with wombats, you get up with stupidity.

You lie down with cripples, you get up with a criminal record.

Now you're just being a drama queen. Did you get to spend a night in jail?

You're proud of that? Don't answer that. I can feel the smugness emanting around the room.

No, that's your fashion sense screaming for mercy. Did you steal that tie off an Oompa Loompa?

Yes, I stole the tie of an Oompa Loompa. I get all my clothes from obscure storybook characters.

Goodbye, House. I have a consult. Please, this time, refrain from making puffer fish faces on my window in the middle of it.

I could moon you instead. Big, white butt cheeks pressed against your window. Talk about a room with a view.

With that horrific mental imagine, I'm going.

What about my script?

Ask Chase. In all his supposed stupidity, he might enjoy the view of your arse cheeks, too.

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