Of course I'm holding back, I'm insane you idiot. Remember the other day when you told me I had pit-stains, well I have cried every fifteen minutes on the half-hour since you told me that. I am racked with self-doubt, I have panic attacks, I'm claustrophobic, germ-phobic, phobia-phobic. I talk to myself, I talk to my cats, I talk to three separate shrinks about the fact that often my cats respond to me in my mother's voice and, yesterday, when that stupid, pretty surgical nurse handed you a pair of latex gloves I almost killed the guy who's leg I was stitching up because I couldn't stop thinking about the two of you having sex on a box of steaks. Why a box of steaks? 'Cos my Dad had an affair with a female butcher and, as I mentioned before, I am insane. There, I opened up, are you happy?