The arcade is a dream, an escape. It’s where people let lose themselves of the daily stress called life. It’s where guys bring their girlfriends on a first date. And it’s an absolute nightmare for me.
The last time I went to the arcade was about two months ago when my friends and I hung out after my one-year hiatus from The Real World. We went there to have a karaoke session. But as we were safe in the confines of the karaoke room, the way there was the true horror.
The boisterous laughter, the annoying go-go dancing [up to now, I still have no idea what it’s called], the intermingling noises from the arcade games, of course, the unified adrenaline, the vigorous sweating...TOO MUCH!!! *clears throat* It was too much to handle.
Okay, fine, I admit. I’m exaggerating. The real reason why I hate going to the arcade, aside from the perfectly good reasons stated above, is because I can totally empathise with the aggressive use of the controls. When I play, I don’t play for fun. I have to win. If I ever allow myself to get sucked into its taunting fixtures, I would be there all night, having swear words for dinner. I get über competitive and obsessive, and finally depressive if I can’t beat the game.
As much as it is a place of happiness and hopes and carefree living where dreams become reality, it can be psychologically traumatising for my ego. And I’d rather not get into that.