Paul: It's just, well, this is what bothered me the other night. I know there's something wrong but you won't talk about it. I guess sometimes it feels like you're holding back.
Elliot: 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 15 minutes on the half-hour since you told me that. I am racked with self-doubt, I have panic attacks, I'm claustrophobic, germophobic, phobia-phobic. I talk to myself, I talk to my cat, 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 latex gloves, I almost killed a guy whose 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? 'cause my dad had an affair with a female butcher. And, as I mentioned before, I am insane. There, I opened up.