I remember the first time I rode a ferris wheel. It was a mini/baby one with my dad at Six Flags in Arlington. My dad is a wuss, I came to find out later, but at the time, he was going to protect me if anything happened on that thing. As I grew older, I became more afraid of ferris wheels, not less. It almost makes me want to not travel to London because I feel like you’re supposed to ride on that giant one that people take pictures in front of that I don’t know the name of. There’s also one in Coney Island, in New York, and I looked at it. I took a beautiful Polaroid picture, when I still had film left, of the ferris wheel, but chose to ride the scariness of the Cyclone roller coaster instead. A friend of mine broke her back on that roller coaster. I wasn’t there, but I heard the stories.
