When I was 17, my friend’s ex-boyfriend sat in my room for an afternoon, held something sharp to his wrists (I think it was scissors), and threatened to kill himself if I didn’t tell my friend to get back together with him.
And all I could think was, “You’re threatening to cut but you want to cut in the wrong direction, that ain’t gonna work, dude.”
That’s how jaded I was.
By the way, my Mom was home when this happened. She didn’t interfere (with which I mean: she didn’t come to help). When I asked her afterwards not to tell anyone, she used it as gossip material anyway.
I don’t know why I’m thinking of this today. Maybe because it’s my birthday in a few days and this is now half a life-time ago. Maybe because I still know how much yew needles you need for a deadly dose. Or that aspirin will give you a nasty, painful, drawn out death if you OD on it. It’s the kind of stuff that my brain keeps around apparently, while it is intent on making me forget my friends’ birthdays.
Your priorities are screwed, brain.