A/N: It was suggested that I start putting memories to paper a long time ago as a writing exercise...and here is the fruit of my labors. Try it sometime.

DDR Was the Death of Me

Two years ago, my school cut a deal with an amusement park near here. Canada's Wonderland (it's like Darien Like, but in Canada) offered to have the graduating students from a few schools stay the night. They would keep the rides open and going the entire time. The usual rules applied- no booze, no drugs, no weapons. The entire event ran from about nine at night to five in the morning.

So I'm sitting there, making mistakes from the get-go. It was sort of chilly out, so I put on a pair of heavy jeans and a long-sleeved shirt made of thick cotton. For good measure, I got a light coat lined with fleece. My mom offered her cellphone, and I refused. I didn't want her chasing me at all hours of the night. I grabbed ten bucks, which I figured was enough to grab me a meal while I was there.

It was starting to drizzle when we boarded the bus to get there at eight-thirty PM. I shrugged and got a seat by myself, being quite possibly one of the least liked people in history. The line up took an hour, plus another half hour to be patted down. By the team we got into the park, we were a little wet and damn irritated. We figured it was all good, though. We had the park to ourselves, right?

Well, there were a lot of people there, but lineups were minimal. Unfortunately, the rain had started to pick up a bit. So, I went on a few rollercoasters. No amount of rain could stop me, I thought. Hardcore!

Well, after a little bit, I felt like drizzle had sandblasted the skin from my face. Speed and rainnarr. So, I decided that instead of riding every rollercoaster, I should just ride the really good ones. I was starting to feel exceptionally wet, with my shoes and jeans feeling weighted. I tried to cross the park to get to the good rides, but unfortunately it started to out and out POUR at this point. I'm talking like Biblical proportions of rain now. By the time I found shelter, I was soaked to the bone. My coat was soaked, my jeans were soaked, my shirt and shoes were soaked. I ducked into an arcade, and got stuck.

The arcade filled up pretty quick, and I got pushed towards the back. My ten-dollar bill was now pulp, and I was slowly freezing to death next to a DDR (Dance Dance Revolution, for you old folks) machine. I spent a few hours watching assorted white kids take a shot at the game, then a few uber1337 Asian kids absolutely blow their scores out of the water. My skull was splitting from the pounding Japanese techno, so I left. I dashed from shelter to shelter- arcade to overhang to public washroom. Kids had forced doors to try to find room for themselves. Others hung clothes on the stalls and tried to dry them out.

Another few hours of pulse-pounding techno later, it was almost time I leave. Shivering and largely incoherent, I was now chronically wiping my nose with my sleeve. The rain hadn't let up, but the warmth of the bus, and ergo home, called to me. I ran out of the park, barely able to move under the weight of my clothes. I ran from bus to bus, watching my ingenious fellows break into them when bus drivers went to get a smoke instead of attending to their vehicles. After about a half hour, I found my bus and boarded. I curled up into a soggy ball and promptly passed out.

When I woke up, I was dirty as hell from having rolled onto the bus floor. I was still soaked. I staggered off the bus, swearing up a storm as my sore and aching muscles cramped up or refused to work. My dad drove me home, I took an hour long hot shower, slept for eighteen hours and was sick for a week.

And that is my heroic story.