Watching ‘House’ annihilates the before-bedtime drama I used to habitually conceive. It’s neither a calming capsule nor a sleeping pill. (Perhaps an ecstasy? But, not.) Though symptoms like turned-up hair ends, and highly activated senses (except for taste and smell) appear, House is never a drug to fear, none the less a fatal virus, just another pleasurable  time-killer (Uh-oh, I know it’s a lousy praise, anyhow, read on).

Greg House is the culprit. Supported by intriguing staff of HCPs (Health Care Professionals), House is always almost seen brainstorming, discussing (almost sounding like arguing), and lastly, uncovering anything unknown the first time. More than the characters and plot, the endless, no non-sense talks assuage any unpleasant mood I have.

There used to be only two things that made me admire doctors: when they wear the white gown and heal my love ones. Hospitals and clinics terrify me, the scent and sight is gruesome. Luckily ‘House’ doesn’t stink. It’d probably continue to be fascinating, or it might not. So far, of the first season I’m devouring and re-devouring, no allergic reactions come up. Ironically, House’ seemingly miserable portrayal ( I don’t mean the acting, you’d know when you’ve started seeing him) nursed a healthy sort of envy in me. His passion to finding underlying causes and cures to unfamiliar health cases pervades.

How could one be preoccupied with curing people’s illnesses while showing no pity nor sympathy?

If Greg House was real and reading this, he’d never care if I keep watching, lest he’s David Shore (the creator) himself, he might shout at me: ‘House rocks, stop chattering, why belabor the obvious?’

Have a dose of House. It won’t kill you; might as well save you from a bad day. To warn the too-expecting viewers, this series is no panacea. Also, if you lose sleep over it, then it’s addiction. Now, that’s bad. 🙂