Confessions of a Teenage Deathmatch Queen

Being the deeply self-reflective philosopher that I am, I often find myself thinking on why I have opted to go into what is, essentially, a career of self-mutilation. I mean, certainly there are other elements to it—showmanship, creativity, storytelling, athleticism…to name a few—but, let’s face it, when you decide to mark “deathmatch wrestler” in the ‘Occupation’ box on your tax returns, you’re basically committing to a lifetime of excruciating pain and likely paralysis. So, why?

It’s certainly not as if it was an encouraged move by my family, and my high school guidance councilor did not sit me down in his office and ask, “Say, have you ever thought about working in the field of professional deathmatch wrestling? I’ve got some pamphlets here for you to look at, I think it’d really be right up your alley…” Actually, though, in an interesting sidebar—my high school guidance councilor was also my high school “Advanced Business Tech.” teacher, and he did encourage and support our local backyard wrestling enterprises… Still, there was never in my life a single person in a position to give advice who told me that they thought this was a good idea. Nevertheless, in early high school, when most of my peers’ long-term goals involved scoring at prom, I had decided it was my life’s destiny to have a back that resembled Jun Kasai’s. By the middle of my sophomore year, I knew that I had to pursue deathmatches as a career, whatever the cost. I did backyard matches with my friends, which (due to my slight OCD) I ran and organized obsessively, and—in front of audiences ranging from 0-2 people (max), I repeatedly and determinedly attempted to maim myself with barbed wire, thumbtacks, light tubes, glass panes, and more; and all for the sheer sake of having an extensive resume of scar tissue for my eventual job interview with John Zandig. While my entire extended family were suggesting colleges and possible careers for me to look into, I was too busy jumping off of buildings to hear them. It was mentioned that perhaps I could go to art school, to get some sort of degree in advertising artwork or computer graphics… “F-U-Calvin Klein that noise,” I’d respond, “I’ve got a plan.” And I did. My plan, quite simply, was to risk life and limb to impress an audience of a few-hundred overly-critical “fans;” Fans who would not only forget about the danger and pain I put myself through by the time they left the show, but who would then go home and write about how I “botched a few spots” and “the finish of my match looked sloppy” on their computers. But still, I have to admit…I fucking love this shit. I love to get my head cracked by a steel chair, I love to get tangled up in barbed wire, and I love the way the lighttubes explode on my body, and suddenly I’m covered in blood. It’s fucking brilliant.

So what’s the motivation behind all this? Why would I choose to do this, when there are so many other safer, more lucrative, more beneficial ways to spend my life? Because I’m a profoundly disturbed young man, that’s why. There, that solves that. I’m a nutter. There, I’ve learned something about myself today. Good enough.