I called once, and by the end of it I didn't want to kill myself anymore because I was overcome with annoyance at how plastic the experience was. She kept asking if I was somewhere safe, and I'm like, "Actually, I'm here with a guy who wants to kill me, and that guy is me, and no that is not safe." "I mean, are you in the process of killing yourself?" "Do I need to be? I'm in my garage. I can start my car." "So you have a plan?" "I have a list, lady." "But you're calling us, so you must want to live." "No, I want to die, I just don't actually want to kill myself." Blah blah permanent solution to temporary problems blah blah you can get help for mental health blah blah local place that does a sliding pay scale blah blah so much to live for. Really? My dad is a serial rapist, my mom is incapable of basic human interaction, my siblings are all neurotic narcissists, my best friend died in a freak accident, I've had five jobs this year alone and I'm on such a heavy dose of antipsychotics that I work, sleep and eat and look at porn during my commute. I've had two cats die of renal failure and I couldn't afford to pit one down and the other died while I was away and no one told me until it came up in casual conversation. I'm overweight, getting slower witted and stupider by the day and terrified of WWIII, climate change and religious fanatics. Tell me about how one time Melissa Tompkins called you a mean name and people teased you about it for the rest of the semester. That's 100% relatable. I'll take dank meme therapy over plastic telephone bitch, thanks.