Sitting on the cold bathroom floor, Phillip thought of the Dorothy Parker poem about suicide.

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Phillip had contemplated all of those methods.
A razor, forget about it, the sight of blood, he would faint before he died.
Because he was addicted to those CSI forensic shows, he knew death by drowning would make his body bloated and he was vain and wanted his body found in pristine condition.

He never took drugs, couldn’t even swallow a pill, forget needles, he could no more jab himself with a needle than pluck out his own eyeballs.

He didn’t own a gun, nor did he know where to get one. Same reason for not using acid. Did stores even sell acid?

Gas mad him sick to his stomach.

Having not been a boy scout, he didn’t have a clue how to make a noose, let alone a decent knot to hang himself with.
So in the end he had to agree with Miss Parker.