Radical Heights

I didn’t play Radical Heights—Radical Heights played me. I logged in once in 2018, blinked, and when I came to, I was shirtless, coated in glitter, and screaming "CASH OUT!" at a mirror in an Arby’s bathroom. I’ve never even been to an Arby’s before. That’s the power this game had. Neon. Testosterone. Vending machines with guns. A bike with no brakes. A dream. The gameplay was like if Fortnite and American Gladiators had a baby and fed it nothing but Mountain Dew Code Red and VHS tapes of mall commercials. It wasn’t balanced. It wasn’t finished. But neither is my mental state and I still show up to work. Every match started with hope and ended with me getting sniped while trying to buy a pistol from a soda machine in a gazebo shaped like a laser tag arena. Beautiful. 10/10. Game of the century. They took it away from us. They closed the servers. But I still hear the music at night… 🎶 RAAAADICAL HEIGHTS!!! 🎶 I can't even make love without picturing a fanny pack now. I would trade my family, my limbs, and my crypto wallet (which is just a sticky note that says “believe”) just to play this game one more time. I sold my furniture to build a shrine to Cliff Bleszinski made entirely out of expired Surge cans and broken Nerf darts. Bring it back. Bring back the only game where I felt like a money-fueled game show god with a mullet and a dream. Bring back the game that asked, "what if capitalism, but with trampolines?" Bring back my reason to live. BRING BACK RADICAL HEIGHTS. 🛹💵💔