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 write about wanting to be a deathmatch wrestler on all the essays you write in school, 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 counselor 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…” 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 high school now, when most of my peers’ long-term goals involve scoring at prom, I have decided it's my life's destiny to have a back that resembled Jun Kasai’s. 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.