Rejected

I was given the most invaluable information a single woman could ever have.

Because I'm an author and, therefore, all about cliffhangers, I'm going to leave you at that and provide a little setup into how I came by it.  You ready for it?  Are you in your comfy chair, wearing your favorite slippers and robe, a mug of Baileys-spiked hot chocolate in hand?

Okay, realistically, the backstory won't take that long.  You don't have to get that settled.  I was just fantasizing about the Baileys hot chocolate and needed to express.

Yeah, yeah—I'm getting on with it.

I was out with my sister and a couple friends, and we were talking about dating—specifically methods of turning away the skeezy guys who ask for your number. 

(That's it.  That's the setup.  See?  I told you it was short.)

Anyway, they told me about The Rejection Line (212.479.7990).  Basically, it's a recorded message that says the person who gave the number to you never wants to hear from you ever again.  And then you get a menu with several choices.

Option 1: a comfort specialist.  Someone telling you there are plenty of fish in the sea and to keep plugging along.  And if that fails, there's always alcohol and Snickers.

Option 2: a sad poem.  Enough said.

Option 3: unrealistic hope.  That the person who gave the number just got a digit wrong, or that the telephone company screwed up the connection.  And so forth.

It's brilliant.  I wish I'd known about this ages ago.  Better late than never, I guess.  But I'm wondering if there are other types of hotlines that are desperately needed.  Like a service your boss can call that gives you an excuse for missing work, or something.  I'll brainstorm that some more.