Letters To Jane
Signing Up
8:14 A.M.
In an obscure part of the internet, Jane found the penpal site. It wasn't something she'd ever thought she'd be doing--it was the kind of dorky shit her mum always wanted her to do. But here she was, signing up for an account there, like it was something she'd always intended to do.
In front of her was a blank profile. Shit, she thought. It's just a profile, not a suicide note. It doesn't have to be perfect.
So she wrote like it was the only thing she'd ever learned to do. Maybe after all the goodbye letters she'd written, it really was the only thing she'd ever learned to do. Writing about yourself is a skill like any other after all, and some never learn to do it well.
"My name's Jane," she wrote. "I'm 15 and I'm from Australia. There's not much I can think of to say here for now, but I'm happy to write to anyone.
"My favourite movie is Wonder Woman; my favourite band is Tonight Alive; my favourite show is The Good Place. In truth, I go through movies like they're water. For real, there's legitimately very few movies I'd refuse to watch categorically.
"If you're keen on writing to me, don't hesitate. I'll probably respond if you're not obviously a pedophile."
Jane looked at what she just wrote. There was that part of her that suddenly became very concerned that this wasn't good enough. She recognised it immediately: it was the same one she'd felt a thousand times when she'd written a suicide note she didn't like.
She knew that the perfect penpal profile was going to become a white whale for her. That was how she was on some fundamental level that she didn't quite understand consciously: if she wrote a thing, she'd rewrite it ad nauseum until it was perfect.
This profile, she knew, wasn't a suicide note. The version people saw today didn't need to be the final one. She'd rewrite it tomorrow and the next day and the next day until it was right, but she'd get there eventually.
Jane hit the publish button on her ad. And then she waited.
In an obscure part of the internet, Jane found the penpal site. It wasn't something she'd ever thought she'd be doing--it was the kind of dorky shit her mum always wanted her to do. But here she was, signing up for an account there, like it was something she'd always intended to do.
In front of her was a blank profile. Shit, she thought. It's just a profile, not a suicide note. It doesn't have to be perfect.
So she wrote like it was the only thing she'd ever learned to do. Maybe after all the goodbye letters she'd written, it really was the only thing she'd ever learned to do. Writing about yourself is a skill like any other after all, and some never learn to do it well.
"My name's Jane," she wrote. "I'm 15 and I'm from Australia. There's not much I can think of to say here for now, but I'm happy to write to anyone.
"My favourite movie is Wonder Woman; my favourite band is Tonight Alive; my favourite show is The Good Place. In truth, I go through movies like they're water. For real, there's legitimately very few movies I'd refuse to watch categorically.
"If you're keen on writing to me, don't hesitate. I'll probably respond if you're not obviously a pedophile."
Jane looked at what she just wrote. There was that part of her that suddenly became very concerned that this wasn't good enough. She recognised it immediately: it was the same one she'd felt a thousand times when she'd written a suicide note she didn't like.
She knew that the perfect penpal profile was going to become a white whale for her. That was how she was on some fundamental level that she didn't quite understand consciously: if she wrote a thing, she'd rewrite it ad nauseum until it was perfect.
This profile, she knew, wasn't a suicide note. The version people saw today didn't need to be the final one. She'd rewrite it tomorrow and the next day and the next day until it was right, but she'd get there eventually.
Jane hit the publish button on her ad. And then she waited.