I’ve been suicidal since I was nine years old, but I didn’t really seriously start considering it until I was 14. This was in the days before Columbine, you see: We didn’t shoot up our schoolyard bullies back then–especially not in New Jersey, which didn’t really have a hunting culture–we listened to sad music with distorted guitars and angsty screaming while we slit our wrists or, in my case, overdosed on migraine medication. Not that I actually overdosed ever–I’d simply calculated how many pills I’d need to take (the whole bottle, just to be sure), had the whole plan–would stay home sick from school, which I was doing a lot already because there were just too many days I could not deal with the constant torment from the ganging up, the molestation, the abuse, the verbal threats, the ignoring, would take them the second my parents left the house, an hour later put on my favorite song (the Smashing Pumpkins b-side “The Aeroplane Flies High (Turns Left, Looks Right)”, yes, yes, I know, but it does have a kickass solo) and drift off into death’s embrace or whatever. So yeah. My response to schoolwide bullying was to take up smoking, get into drugs, listen to angry music, masturbate furiously until deep chafed bleeding wounds developed on my penis–I had constant oozing scabs on the head of my dick that year which, in what might be a proto form of CBT, I would pick off to bleed and scab up again, getting some weird thrill out of it–and contemplate suicide. It would have been nice to have figured out some way for the entirety of my high school class to die, painfully, agonizingly, if only there were a way of torturing an entire building of teenagers en masse!, but I’d transferred to a much better school by the time Harris and Klebold shot up theirs. And while I had much kinder, gentler jerkoff sessions to the thought of bringing a gun into my old school–I’d discovered hand lotion by this point–and while these times informed my personal theory that the pair had had erections during the entire massacre, freshman year of high school faded the older I got. Now, at the age of thirty, I barely think of it–while I hope to hear of the violent deaths of the children and families of certain people, there’s enough that I have to deal with that I don’t really go there very often.
It’s with this in mind that I played Suda51′s 2012 game Lollipop Chainsaw, an action brawler in which you play a young cheerleader named Juliet who is having the craziest birthday ever. Juliet is your typical teenage girl–she loves her boyfriend, shopping, cheerleading, and her family; she worries about her weight and about her boyfriend finding out that–omigod–she’s a zombie hunter! And one day her school is overrun by zombies, and her boyfriend is bitten, and she performs a magical ritual so that way just his head survives, and it turns out that the local goth kid was made fun of and ignored so much that he opened up a rift in dimensions and called in demons and is attempting to destroy everything. I would have loved to have opened up a rift in dimensions. It would have been nice for all of my classmates to have turned into zombies and died. Assuming that that meant an eternity of suffering and torture. If they felt no pain or enjoyed it in any way, then no deal.