Tifa’s huge rack and Cloud’s huge sword. It isn’t science (or maybe it is?) why I got behind Final Fantasy VII back in the day. There was flowing breasts and enormous bladed phallic weapons to swing at objects of my desire destruction. My adolescent brain was careening on raw hormone. You see, I regularly destroyed compact discs for no apparent reason. More often than not, I’d crank open my Mortal Kombat II strategy guide and awkwardly rub my groin all over my carpet with odd feelings and gooey groin. This game brought together these two absurd occurrences, and wrapped it up with the emergent teenage sense of wonderment. As Cloud and his rag tag of condemnable terrorists rolled the fuck out of Midgar, the world opened up to them. I couldn’t help but feel the same fucking feeling, with friends getting their licenses and our own world map unfolding before our eyes. Granted, Cloud was saving the world (when not being some sort of eco-Jihadist piece of shit). I was getting fat off of Wendy’s chicken nuggets and cajoling friends into trying to buy porn for me. Cloud and me? Mutually assured bildungsroman.

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