Typhoon Texas Hudson Kalmans

Typhoon Texas

Who decides to work at a waterpark—specifically a bad waterpark? Surrounded by grunty kids whose moms make them wear water shirts because of the unforgiving sun. Their faces were wrought with Dippin’ Dots, and their parents aghast by the ten-person line for the super slide. Not even to mention the lifeguards, sucking down nicotine like Parisians at 2am.

And there I was, just trying to relax on the lazy river on the weekend, before grinding for school again. That is not entirely true; I came with a group of ten or so, all dispersed throughout the hot concrete slab in the middle of a manure-ridden field. How does this place recruit kids to operate divorced parents’ grift to make their children like them again? The oily food forms a chemical disaster with the suntan lotion on the face of young children, and the parking lot is full of loud, bombastic music coming from a 2009 blue Honda Civic.

Something about it is sweet, though. The buckets of falling water as little kids run from one thing to the next. Racing the kids next to you down the water slide, winning, of course, and going through the covered part of a waterslide, experiencing pitch black, and coming out with the sun radiating across your skin.