I would rather somebody barge into my room and catch me with trousers down, than have them walk in and see me watching this video; sat there with my elbows on desk, arms pointing skyward, hands knotted together and my head resting on top of them, tilted at a slight angle.

I love the damn thing. I can't stop watching it. Typing this sentence alone has triggered that instinctive urge to stop everything I'm doing and watch it again. When proof reading this later, I'm only going to do the same. This compulsion has that suspcious “I’m taking my laptop out of the room. Pray I don’t visit the restroom and take it in there with me,” air about it.

My issue with this frankly moving piece of videogame cinema actually has little to do with the content itself, but more the questions I suspect it'll raise from an impartial bystander: "Why is he watching that? Is he unhappy? Is he lonely? Did he really just refer to his fat ginger cat as his little red-haired stepson?”

Now on the wrong side of twenty-five and fast approaching the big three-oh-no, all of my close friends and immediate family are either settling down or in the early stages of, whereas I remain decidedly single. Social gatherings are like being onboard Noah’s Ark, and when the conversation dries up enough, the animals travelling two-by-two will sometimes stare at the empty space beside me and ask about my romantic life.

As I’ve grown progressively older and questionably more handsome, I’ve noticed that no matter how playful the discussion was prior to this line of inquiry, an often witty retort about “dying alone” will typically shift the tone to a much darker one. Instead of taking my comment in the humour it was clearly intended, one of God’s creatures will typically respond in kind with something tasteful like: "We'll find you someone soon [Matty].”



There is nothing worse than pity. Ecspecially when you feel it's undeserved, and there's no easy way to communicate that point without coming across as defensive, and there's always some smart ass who'll "read between the lines" and come to the assumption that it's just another byproduct of your loneliness. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that this offer of a life jacket is one made with love, but I’m not drowning in sadness. Not yet anyway. You won’t find me sat in my room alone most nights, sobbing delicious salty tears to the sounds of the Smiths; I’m in there shooting things in the face and eating enough crisps to keep me looking portly and far from trim. (While listening to the Smiths.) I’m happy.

So theoretical lovesick assumptions aside, what is the real reason for my romantic FMV (Full eMotion Video) obsession?

Well, suprisinging no one I suspect, as a teenager I suffered quite heavilly from depression and other forms of mental illness. This reached breaking point at sixteen when I suffered a complete nervous breakdown.

(Hey wait – where the hell are you going? I’m about to pour my heart out here. So help me god, if you click that close tab crosshair, my next blog will be called “Nobody loves me” and I’ll dedicate it to you personally. My story isn’t anything too shocking or out of the ordinary, but this information is essential in helping explain my infatuation.)

During this overcast period of my life, I played a lot of Final Fantasy VIII to help me cope whenever there was a good chance of rain. At the time, I remember being able to see a lot of myself in protagonist Squall Leonheart, a now well established Square-Enix character template that mirrored their entire audience. He was introverted, socially clumbsy, silently angry at a world that had somehow wronged him and struggled with his own issues of low self-esteem. This elaborate fantasy of mine probably wasn’t helped by a rather prominent scar on my nose. One that has now faded significantly with age.

Helped largely by it’s inclusion on the bonus disc for the Final Fantasy VII platinum re-release, (which allowed quick and SeeDy access if I wanted a cuddle), the Ballroom scene was one of my favourites, even back then. It’s just so chipper and disgustingly sweet.



I guess that rediscovering it as an adult helps put my life in perspective, and I use it like a child would a comfort blanket. It’s my own personal bat signal and it symbolizes a very difficult period of my life. It helps remind me that I no longer need a nice man in my life to routinely tell me to “cheer up,” and that any madness I suffer from now is entirely rational. I hope.

And while I am in no way ashamed of my wavy-lined past, I really don’t need anyone catching me relive it. Not by accident anyway. We all have our skeletons and we all feel vulnerable from time to time, but I’d rather have a private moment alone in the cubicle, thanks. I’ll expose myself when I want to and not because you’ve caught me with my fly open. It’s much less embaressing that way!