after our friday night dinner and movie, my roommate and i sat around chatting. i told him about my propensity to cut myself while preparing food and mister monkey's propensity to yell at me when i do.
moi: so over christmas, i cut myself pretty badly while cutting an onion. crusty juggler had to come and mop up the blood and put a band-aid on my finger because mister monkey was raging on and yelling and telling me i had to see a psychiatrist, which i really don't get. i mean, why does he tell me i need to see a shrink?
roommate: because you are cutting yourself.
which, i suppose does clarify things a bit: self-cutting is most definitely grounds for psychiatric intervention.