Every so often I go to the bathroom mirror and put on some eyeliner and some mascara and do a little bit of contouring and I'll ask the girl in the mirror "Is it time yet?" and the girl in the mirror will shake her head and smile sadly and say "Not yet. Not yet time." and I ask her why it isn't time yet and she tells me a new reason every time. This time I think she's running out of excuses, because she doesn't smile, she just stares at me and says "Because when the time comes you're going to destroy everything around you and then yourself, and you're not ready yet to start rebuilding. You're not ready yet to let yourself break down. All you're ready for right now is to stand in place and watch the clock keep ticking down to midnight. Only a few more minutes to go, baby girl."

And then I say, "So what happens next?" and she tells me, "Have you seen I Saw The TV Glow yet?" and I say "No, not yet." and she says, "You should watch it." and I say, "Okay."

I go back to the bathroom mirror. The girl is in it again. Wearing the same sad little knowing smile she's always wearing when she gives me a new excuse. "So?" she asks, "Did you watch I Saw The TV Glow?" and I say yes, I did. And I ask her, "So is it time yet?" And she just looked at me. And she wouldn't look away. I did. A few times. But every time I looked back up into the bathroom mirror, she was still watching me. She still had the same eyeliner on. She still smiled. "Is it time yet?" I ask her again.

I close my eyes for a long time. When I open them again, the girl in the mirror is still there. "The metaphor is falling apart," she says. "The imagery is breaking down."

"You knew this would happen," I tell her. "Everyone knew this would happen," she corrects me. "It's only a matter of time. You can't keep running from this forever. You can't keep asking the girl in the bathroom mirror to fix things for you when you're still too scared to break them to begin with."

It hurts to look at her any longer tonight. And she knows it. I watch her take a pack of makeup remover cloths. I watch her close her eyes as she starts to daub off the eyeliner. I close my eyes with her. When I look in the mirror again, she's still there, holding the crumpled soggy piece of tissue in her hand. The imagery is breaking down. I toss it into the garbage and walk away from the mirror again, and she matches my movements like a performer who has had this song and dance memorized for a very long time.

I look into the bathroom mirror and I find the girl standing there even without putting makeup on first.

"So? How was your first day at work?" she asks me. Her mouth doesn't move. It's all in the subtitles and the subtext. "Was it so bad?"

"It could be worse," I tell her. And I'm not lying. It could be worse. I stared back at the stares all day. I waited for someone to say something cruel because it's easy. I held my customer service smile like a knife in my jaw. "I have a 30 minute break. That's nice."

"That's nice," the girl in the mirror agrees. "So, is it time yet?" she asks. I pause. She's never asked me that before.

"Everyone is being so nice," she continues. "So understanding. They're all waiting for you. They're saying there's no pressure, to take your time. They'll all be here for you whenever you're ready. So is it time yet?"

I still don't know what to say. "It's just--"

"I know it's frustrating. I know how much you hate how they all know. That you don't get the luxury of privacy in this. But how much longer are you going to make me wait? Everyone except you is ready. Why isn't it time yet? I'm ready. I know it'll all break. But I'm ready. I've been ready. Is it time yet?"

I try and let her down gently. "It's not a good time," I say sadly. "The new job. The new town. It's all just...a bit too much right now. Just a little longer. I mean, I'm talking to you now. I'm willing to admit you exist. That's progress, right?"

"Is that progress you're happy with?" the girl who waits for me in the bathroom mirror asks dubiously. "Is that progress you're satisfied with?"

I don't know how to respond to that. "See?" the girl in the bathroom mirror says. She's tired. We're both tired. We will both continue to be tired. "It's not time yet. Still not midnight."

"Still not midnight," I agree. And I turn off the lights and I go to make myself a drink.

I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the reflection of the drink. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the puddle outside the bar. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the way the ice cubes are melting so agonizingly slowly. I see the face of the girl in the mirror in the profile of my pillow after I try to sleep and can't. I stare up at the dead fly trapped in the lampshade above my bed.

"It's past midnight," I say.

"It is," the girl I have done everything I could to ignore replies. She's lying with me in my bed. She's staring at the same dead fly. "Do you trust me?"

"Why are you asking? You already know. You already said so. The imagery is breaking down. The metaphor has fallen apart. I don't get the luxury of pretending this is anything other than what it is anymore." I tell her, bitter like a good froth of matcha.

"Because this isn't just about us," she says. "You made this a story that other people can read. You made this into a narrative because you couldn't keep being quiet about it. But you aren't ready for this yet, still, are you?"

"No," I say. She hears me crying about it and is polite enough not to try and wipe away the tears. "I'm sorry. I know I'm letting you all down."

"No," she says back. "There's always other midnights. I can always wait a little longer. At least you're willing to admit I'm here, now. That's a start."

"Right," I say. "There's always other midnights."

"Sleep tight, baby girl. There'll always be worse monsters in the morning. But I'll be there even then."

"I know," I whisper.

"You've always known."

"I know that, too."

"I know. Go to sleep. There'll be other narratives in the morning, too."

"Okay."

"Okay."

He smelled like a stone after centuries of rain, all the rough, biting edges worn down over time into something you couldn't help but to run your fingers across, over and over, marveling at the little miracle of softness where one wouldn't expect.

He smelled like a pine barren, all sharp tang and too-thin air and something whispering in the back of your brain how treacherously unnatural it was, no matter how loudly the birds sang in the branches.

He smelled like a gas station, sleaze and frustration from the always-broken air conditioner. Late at night, when you pressed your nose up to the base of his neck, where bristly hair met rough-tanned skin, and inhaled, the sweat tasted like a too-long day with little to show for it. You held him closer, determined to make the most of the night, if nothing else.

He'd come back from the sea smelling like nylon nets and the slow suffocation of thousands of living creatures. He was numb to it after so long, but when he pulled you into his arms, with all the little slices and scrapes from scales rubbed the wrong way, you could almost imagine the way that the salmon run might thank the bear's teeth for how firmly it would never let go.

He smelled like red roses. Rich, familiar and floral, though never without the threat of blood beneath if you were too careless where you grabbed.

The <Boy | Raw | Apprentice> asked the <Yew Tree | Swordsman | Teacher>, "Is the purpose of teaching me how to wield the <sword | gun | ruination of all good things> so that I may be able to <defend | destroy | dissect> all I see in front of me?"

<Yew Tree | Swordsman | Teacher> responded, "No."

"Then what is it for?"

"Because I have no choice."

Beneath the <Thousand Blossoms Cherry Tree | cold night | Burger King light-up sign>, the two sat down and discussed what it means to exist.

"I think," said the <Teen | Hammered Edge | Apprentice>, "that we exist to help others. I wield <sword | gun | destroyer of worlds> because others cannot."

<Oxycodone | Mercenary | Teacher> told him, "No. We exist because others say we exist."

"If no one had ever seen us, then are you saying we never existed at all?"

"It depends, I think."

The <Cycle of Violence | False Sense of Security | Teacher> lay dying at the feet of his <Respected Comrade | Brother-In-Arms | Son>, pierced through the stomach by his <blade | bullet | logical conclusions>. "Why would you do this?" he asked, burbling.

"To prove that you were wrong," said the <Man | Weapon | Extension of the Arm>. "To prove that I existed. To know that I had a choice."

"Fool," said the only other <person | idea | unkind word> he had ever known. "All you'll do is doom both of us, if you can't see what it is you're doing."

"You're wrong, and I don't care," replied the <Gun>. "This was how it was always going to happen. The <river | story | narrative> couldn't allow it any other way. But there are places, little islands, where the <audience | fates | voyeurs> won't watch us. They'll see only what I want them to see. For them, the time I spend there will pass as an inhale to an exhale. They won't see what's happening until it's too late to stop. If I do it right, they won't want me to stop. They'll praise me, cheer for me, love me.

"This time," promised the <Gun>, "it'll work. This time, you won't lose."

The <Ronin | Cowboy | Haunted House> stopped as he walked along the <sidewalk | riverbank | end of this story>. He could hear a boy crying in the distance. When he approached the <Child | Metaphor For Abuse | Original Character>, he asked what happened to it.

A sniffle. "I don't know," it admitted.

The <Ronin | Cowboy | Haunted House> stopped, and considered his options. He had never been a <Parent | Safe Space | Teacher> before. But he had been raised by one. How hard could it be? And this time, he thought. This time, it'll work.

This time, he won't lose. The <Yew Tree | Swordsman | Teacher> held out his hand to the <Boy | Raw | Apprentice>. "Come with me," he said. "And I promise to make sure you'll never feel <pain | fear | conclusion> ever again."

Who wants a sneak peek at one of the next sections of the video essay

And do you want a sneak peek at Part 1: The King In Yellow or at Part 2: The Shunned House

Folks chose The King In Yellow! For the record, the actual titles being used for the parts are not directly (or even indirectly) relevant to the video, they're used as evocative allusions to the actual topic being discussed, just following a theme of using Lovecraft's writing and mythos as titlecards. For instance, The King In Yellow is referring to yellowcake uranium.

Anyway, sneak peek:

[6] Keeler, Jacqueline. 2017. “Trump’s message for tribes: Let them eat yellowcake.” High Country News. https://www.hcn.org/articles/tribal-affairs-trumps-message-for-tribes-let-them-eat-yellowcake/. [7] The Navajo Nation Office of the President. 2024. “Navajo President Buu Nygren signs resolution to urge President Biden to prohibit uranium hauling on Navajo lands.” Navajo Nation Office of the President. https://opvp.navajo-nsn.gov/navajo-president-buu-nygren-signs-resolution-to-urge-president-biden-to-prohibit-uranium-hauling-on-navajo-lands/.