Several hissing buzzards have intoned into my cell phone that I owe them money. Some of them have funny accents and will keep talking until you stop them. These expenses I’ve created are perfectly normal, and absolutely rational. I don’t feel manic, but I do feel very defensive and paranoid. That’s otherwise known as There Is Something Else Wrong With Me, and I have to get it worked on. Nothing major, just trying to see if I’m a guy that took a life, or would take my own. Answers to both: Nope.
Suicide, for all of its radical chic and seemingly eternal length, is for bozos. Remember the wristcutters in school? They answer the phones at customer service getting underpaid to talk to you now because you don’t understand your own cell phone bill. Shit, I wanna kill something when that thing shows up, but it ain’t gonna be me or the guy on the other line.
I propose a radical solution: set an age limit to get a cell phone. Make it 25. Because when those call centers empty out every shift, you are all trying to drown their sorrow in alcohol. Kids should never have one, and young adults, well, you’ve seen what it does to them. There is NO ONE that needs to be this connected to information. It’s weird and it needs to stop.
Get off the phone. It’s a nice day. No suicide, just some lunch.