Bleeder of the Hand

Why do I do this to myself? Why oh why? Why, when I have even the most miniscule jag of skin on one of my fingers, do I insist on indulging my urge to tear it off, no matter what the consequence? You could tell me that, in so indulging, the entire side of my body occupied by the affected hand (today, the left) would be rendered completely lifeless, and I would still persist. I would probably even flippantly remark, “Oh well. I’m right-handed anyway.”
As I nibble at the skin with my teeth (and here I always envision myself as some sort of greasy, rabid rodent, eyes spaced about one centimeter apart), as I feel the seering heat of the tiniest bit of thin-skinned flesh being torn from the finger, and as I see the blood (oh god, I feel faint now, writing this after the fact) rush out as quickly as office workers at 5:01 p.m., I know I’m going to suffer. I know I’m going to regret it. But still I forge on — mindlessly, diligently, obsessively. You know me: I don’t like to rest until I get a job done. I take pride in my work!
So how am I going to explain this to the manicurist? Or do I just keep the Band-Aid® on and leave this finger (left index, in case you need to picture it) out of the fun? I feel really bad for the finger, now throbbing intensely enough to keep me from sleep. But its wrath is nothing compared to that of its next-door neighbor, the leader of the band, who, not content with just quietly sticking up for his friend, paused by my ear and murmured such things that I don’t dare even repeat. It sounded eerily like Marlon Brando.
Should I be scared?